Holler
by Edith Sidebottom
Summary: Growing up in Harlan County gave her a shared history with Deputy U.S. Marshal Raylan Givens. A history, that made the two Kentucky natives cynical to the outside world. However, after meeting former Army Ranger, Tim Gutterson, Jolene 'Jo' Taylor's perpetual pessimism will be put to the test. Will she finally learn that we are more than the sins of our fathers?
1. Chapter 1

Ayn Rand once wrote: "Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark in the hopeless swamps of the not-quite, the not-yet, and the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration for the life you deserve and have never been able to reach. The world you desire can be won. It exists.. it is real... it is possible... it's yours."

Jolene 'Jo' Taylor figured Ayn Rand had never visited Harlan County because if she did, she'd understand the true meaning of hopelessness, and wouldn't go around spouting off this shit about being positive.

Jo hated her home state of Kentucky. She thought it was a backwoods place full of inbred people. She wasn't exactly wrong either, not with the likes of Boyd Crowder running around wreaking havoc.

Growing up in Harlan had indoctrinated Jo to the dark side of human nature at a young age, and she'd come out the other side more cynical for it.

This, she had in common with Deputy U.S. Marshal Raylan Givens, among other things.

A challenge to her bleak outlook on life is about to come in the form of none other than Givens' fellow Marshal, Tim Gutterson, a former Army Ranger whose despondency just might rival her own.

_Mary Elizabeth Winstead as Jolene 'Jo' Taylor_

**Disclaimer: I do not own Justified. All the familiar belongs to the show-runners and Elmore Leonard, only Jo Taylor and her ideas belong to me.**


	2. Chapter 2

Tim Gutterson was having a shitty day. It wasn't like anything had gone particularly wrong, but he'd been stuck on prisoner transport duty, and that alone made for a shitty day.

He needed a drink, that was the first thing Tim decided after officially getting off the clock. Thankfully, there was a dive nearby that he liked to frequent, not too close to the courthouse but not too far away from his place. After venturing out into the parking lot and hopping into his SUV, Tim headed there as though on autopilot.

The bar was mostly empty except for a few regulars. Made sense, it was still early evening after all.

Tim slid up to the counter with ease, seating himself with back facing the wall and eyes that could reach the door.

In his scan of the vicinity, Tim had recognized a somewhat familiar face occupying a barstool not more than three down from his own.

He'd never spoken to her, but they had seen each other around the courthouse on more than one occasion. Even shared an elevator once or twice.

Tim had never caught her name, but he was reasonably sure she was a lawyer of some sort. At least, that's what her irregular hours and sharp pantsuits, like the kind she donned today, led him to believe.

Law enforcement and lawyers aren't much fans of each other, and so, despite her attractive figure and doe eyes, Tim had never attempted to chat her up before.

That changed around his fourth tumbler of whiskey; only it wasn't Tim who initiated contact.

"You a sniper," she asked flatly without glancing in his direction. And had there been anyone else at the bar top, he still would have known she was talking to him. Tim's tattoo, a rifle surrounded by a scope, was prominently displayed due to his rolled up shirt sleeves.

"Something like that," he replied, also not looking her direction.

"Well, thank you for your service," she said before taking another sip from her glass. She didn't have to inquire about his military history; she'd known enough servicemen in her time to recognize one from the way they carried themselves.

Her statement of gratitude had been delivered so dryly, that for a moment, Tim had to wonder if she was being sarcastic. He didn't have much time to think on it though, because she was out of her seat, drink in hand, striding over to him now.

She pulled out the stool next to his and made herself comfortable before turning towards him. "Jo Taylor," she introduced while offering her right hand.

Taking it in his own, Tim gave a firm shake out of courtesy. "Tim Gutterson."

He thought she'd try and strike up a conversation after, but silence fell between them instead.

Jo had recognized Tim the second he'd taken a seat at the bar. She'd be lying if she said he hadn't caught her eye during her comings and goings at the courthouse.

He was obviously a composed man, one who didn't mince words unless required. God was the strong and silent type attractive. Didn't hurt that he filled out a button down and slacks nicely either.

Tim was the first to break the silence between them, "You a lawyer or something?"

She let out a chuckle from behind her drink. "Defense attorney, actually," she corrected after placing her glass back down on the counter. "Pretty sure that means you're consorting with the enemy."

"Only if you're helping the bad guys," he retorted.

"Exclusively the bad guys," she answered with a smirk, before turning fully in her chair to appraise him.

Her penetrating gaze would have unsettled a weaker man, but Tim returned her scrutinizing stare with one of his own.

They were silently challenging one another, seeing who would make the next move.

Jo was the first to yield, "you wanna get out of here?"

Tim gave a sharp nod, before draining the drink in front of him and slapping a few twenties down on the counter, enough to cover both their tabs.

He walked off towards the exit without so much as an indicator to her, but Jo followed after him willingly, abandoning her half drank glass at the bar.

The duo ended up at her place due to sheer proximity; they hadn't exchanged any further words since leaving the bar.

As she ushered Tim into her home, the first this he noted was that there were no pictures on the walls. No images of family or friends to be found anywhere, actually.

He didn't get to ponder this detail for long because her lips were on his a moment after she'd locked the door behind them. Teeth scraping and tongues fighting for dominance, neither of them were being particularly gentle.

Tim had a mole gracing his neck, just below the jawline, that Jo had been eyeing all night, wondering if it were sensitive. When she put her lips over the darkened skin and sucked harshly, she got her answer. Tim lost all decorum at the action and nearly dragged her into the bedroom after that.

Nimble fingers shed both their clothes with speed and accuracy. That night, Jo discovered that Deputy U.S. Marshal Tim Gutterson didn't just have the agile hands of a sniper, but the patience of one too.


	3. Chapter 3

After their first night together, things between Tim Gutterson and Jo Taylor fell into a simple pattern. When one of them had steam to blow off or stress to relieve, they'd call, and the other would answer. It was a no strings attached situation, which worked for both parties. No expectations meant no feelings, and, most importantly, no disappointment.

It was an idyllic scenario for both the Marshal and the lawyer, one that proceeded successfully for the ensuing months. That is until a wrench in the form of Raylan Givens was thrown into the mix.

The morning after Raylan Givens shot Boyd Crowder in Ava Crowder's dining room, was a seemingly quiet one. Everyone was at their respective desks, working on paperwork documenting the previous night's events.

Seemingly quiet, until the double doors of the Marshal's office were violently thrown open.

A woman barged in and immediately caused a scene. "Raylan Givens!" She hollered while stomping up to the Marshal's desk.

"You never call! You never write! How can a man just abandon his family like this?" And then, she had begun to cry, right there in the middle of the Marshal's office. Her dark hair was falling like a curtain over her face as she audibly wept into her hands.

Raylan jumped out of his chair as if it were on fire. "Jo?" He asked incredulously, "what're you doing here?"

The woman's false tears turned into rumbles of laughter then, and the two embraced each other.

"I work in this building half the time, dummy." She answered into Raylan's shoulder as the two held their firm hug.

Once the duo had drawn away from each other, he clarified, "I mean, what're you doing back in Kentucky?"

Jo bobbed her head around for a moment before settling on, "I moved back after university. It was just easier."

While the two seemingly reconnected, they had momentarily forgotten about the crowd that had formed during Jo's earlier outburst. The onlookers' confusion and curiosity could be delayed no longer, despite the reunion happening before them.

"What the hell is going on out here?" Art Mullen questioned having left his office to investigate the disturbance.

Jo turned toward the older man and a look of chagrin overtaking her features. "Oh yeah, sorry about that, Chief. Was just trying to give Raylan here a bit of a hard time."

That statement only raised more questions than it provided answers.

"You two know each other?" Raylan and Art asked in unison before sharing a bemused look.

"I think it's about time someone gets to explaining," Art stated, more like ordered.

The responsibility of recounting seemed to fall on Jo, who appeared to be the common denominator between all parties.

"Raylan is my brother," she confessed with a shrug, as though it were justification enough.

Shocked looks were exchanged all around. Tim had to chime in now, not believing what he was hearing. "You never said you had a sister," he noted, accusatorially.

"Adopted sister, actually," Raylan explained to his coworker. "Technically, I'm your cousin too. Harlan is such a fucked up place," Jo added.

No one was allowing her to leave the explanation at that, so Jo broke into an abridged history for the sake of the confounded Marshals.

After both of Jo's parents died when she was thirteen, Raylan's Aunt Helen had adopted the wayward girl, making her Raylan's cousin. When Helen had married Raylan's father, Arlo, a few years later, the two became siblings. The seventeen year age difference between them meant they weren't particularly close, Raylan had long since left the house before Jo had entered it, but he looked out for the younger girl when he could. As for her relationship with the other Marshals, she attributed those to shared court hearings over the last several months she'd been working in Lexington. Her biblical relations with a particular male Marshal weren't mentioned.

Speaking of Tim, he'd been silently shitting himself behind his desk during this whole reveal. Not only had he learned that he'd been fucking his partner's sister in secret for the last several months, but said Marshal also had a penchant for shooting people who had wronged him.

Tim was totally screwed, and he knew it.

Once her testimony had reached its conclusion, Jo took leave from her brother and company. Commenting that she would be seeing them again soon, and headed for the door. While everyone else returned to their daily tasks, Tim made up an excuse about needing to go down to evidence lockup and followed suit.

Once the two were alone in the confines of the elevator, Tim hit the stop button, ceasing the chambers movement.

"You never told me your brother was a Marshall," he accused with crossed arms. Jo found his unease exceptionally adorable.

"You never asked. Plus, it's not like we talk much when we're together." She was definitely teasing him now, her hands tracing patterns over his taut chest.

Tim took her hands in his own, ceasing her traitorous movements. "Raylan is going to kill me."

"Only if he finds out. You can keep a secret, can't you, Deputy Gutterson?" Tim never got the chance to confirm nor deny her assumption because her hand on his neck was working to bring their faces together in a searing kiss.

Yep, Tim was totally screwed.


	4. Chapter 4

Tim's reservations about continuing his relationship with Jo had fallen apart relatively quickly, as was evident by their current position. The two lay beneath Tim's bedsheets, legs intertwined as Jo's head rested upon his chest, her fingers idly drawing patterns into the skin of his shoulder.

While their trysts had become a semi-regular occurrence, this arrangement was a new development. It had become their routine for the person whose house they weren't at to get up, get dressed, and immediately leave following completion; there was never any cuddling post-coitus. Tonight, however, it seemed natural, so Jo stayed, and neither of them questioned this break in tradition.

"Saved your brother today," Tim announced, interrupting the silence. That got Jo to look up at him, her chin resting on his sternum so that she could catch his eye. "Oh yeah?" She asked him to continue.

He told her about how Douglas Cooper had escaped lockup, then carjacked Raylan at a gas station. Jo would have to remember to mock her brother for getting jumped by an old convict the next time she saw him. How their search for the escapee had taken them to Riverbrook where another criminal, Dupree, had taken a family hostage.

Should Tim have been sharing all this with a civilian and a lawyer to boot? Yeah, probably not, but Jo was related to law enforcement, and that earns a person special privileges.

"So Raylan goes in to talk Dupree down-"

"Of course he did," Jo interrupted with a roll of the eyes. Tim continued as though she hadn't cut him short, "It didn't go so well. The girl, Shirley-"

Jo, once again, halted his storytelling with a comment. "The former exotic dancer? Was she hot?" This second infraction earned her a pinch on the hip, which elicited a giggle from Jo's lips, but she quieted down all the same.

"So Shirley, the one-time exotic dancer, cuts off the lights and Dupree goes to shoot Raylan-"

"But you got him instead?" Jo liked that way Tim's brow wrinkled when he was frustrated, and it gave her all the more reason to continue teasing him.

"He stepped out of line, and I got to shoot him." The tone was jesting, but Jo could see that the joke never reached his eyes. That's when she realized he wasn't just telling her the story to boast about saving her brother's ass.

Jo's voice lost its jest. "You okay with that?"

When Tim removed her head from his chest, and extracted her arm from his shoulder, in favor of sitting at the edge of the bed with his back turned towards her, Jo knew they had walked into sensitive territory.

You know one man who has served in active duty, you know the baggage they all carry. Growing up in the same household as Arlo Givens had provided Jo with a crash course in how desperate men can be after coming back from war, and how quickly they can fall off the deep end without the proper coping skills to handle their shit.

If Jo didn't diffuse this particular bomb in a hurry, it would put a real damper on any relations they planned to have in the future.

Sitting up in bed behind him, letting the bedsheets pool around her waist, Jo asked in the gentlest voice she could, "do you wanna talk about it?" The only response she received was a short head shake in decline.

"Well," she started, moving to wrap both arms around Tim's torso from behind and rest her chin upon his shoulder, "if you're not gonna use that mouth for talking, then why don't you come over here and find another use for it."

Tim hesitated for what Jo thought was a moment too long in contemplating her offer, so she gave a sharp tug to his earlobe with her teeth to drive the implication home. The sensation seemed to nudge him out of brooding because the next moment Jo found herself lying back on the mattress, Tim's weight pressing down on her to eliminate any squirming as he showed her exactly what his mouth could do aside from talking.


	5. Chapter 5

The dream she had been having was a peaceful one, filled with ocean waves, cold beers, and a blonde headed Marshall who didn't say much. That is until the sound of buzzing interrupted her content slumber. Jo willed the noise to stop, but it was persistent nonetheless; someone really wanted to reach her at this ungodly hour.

Throwing the sheets back, Jo sat up in bed and looked at the offending device with distaste, torn between ignoring it altogether and ripping the person on the other end a new one. Once she'd chanced a glance at the caller ID, Jo knew there was no going back to sleep and shunning this distinct indication of the problematic day that was beginning to form.

A call from the Sheriff's Office was a thoroughly unwelcome start to Jo's morning. Now, she was down in Harlan begrudgingly handling the business with Arlo's DUI.

Parking her car in the lot and walking up to the doors of the facility, Jo found Helen being haphazardly tossed out. The string of swear words flowing out of the older woman's mouth were less than ladylike.

"You get yourself thrown out?" Jo asked as she stood aside from the older woman who was righting herself after being unceremoniously kicked to the curb.

"Those jackboot thugs are filling a restraining order against me! Said I'm not allowed back in the jail." Helen all but seethed at her question.

Jo let out a sigh, rubbing the space between her eyes where she could already feel a headache starting to form. "Alright, you head home. I'll get it sorted and drive him back." That answer seemed good enough for Helen, and she left without further incident.

Walking through the doors of the precinct provided Jo with a sense of deja vu. How many times had she bailed someone out of this particular lock up now? Far too many to count, and this wouldn't be the last time either.

Saddling up to the counter, Jo had given her name and informed the clerk that she would need to speak with the Sheriff. When the kid behind the desk tried to inform her that this wasn't possible, Jo pinned him down with a firm look. "I'm an old friend," she said shortly. "Run along and tell Hunter I'm here, I'm sure he'll find the time to meet with me." Any argument to the contrary died on the kid's lips as he hurried off towards the back of the station.

Finding a seat in the waiting room, Jo plopped down in the chair already exhausted though the day has just barely begun. Her head was leaned back against the wall, and her eyes were closed in contemplation when a vibrating from her pocket informed her of an incoming text. Pulling it out and glancing at the display screen told that the message in question was from Tim. Unlocking the screen with a swipe of the thumb, and reading over the text message's contents had Jo's laughter cutting through the early morning quiet of the station.

_Hands and feet handcuffed to the bed. Only wearing socks and tighty whities. Women's underwear stuffed in the mouth._

Jo quickly typed back a response. _Is this a request? _

Tim's follow up came back just as fast. _That's how we found a fugitive._

_Sounds like a good time_. With one last smile at her phone, Jo returned the device to her pocket seeing Sheriff Hunter Mosley approaching her.

"My office," he replied gruffly while pointing a thumb to the back, and striding off with the intent on her to follow, which Jo did with a roll of the eyes.

After ushering Jo into his office and closing the door behind them gently, Mosley made himself comfortable behind the large wooden desk while Jo took the seat across from him. "Now, Jolene, you gotta understand-"Jo cut the Sheriff off before he was allowed to finish commenting on what it was she may or may not understand.

"Hunter, you and I both know that the medication they have Arlo on gets him in a certain way," Jo started.

This received an indignant grunt from Mosley. "Arlo was drunk coming back from that veteran bar."

Jo continued as though she hadn't heard his interruption. "If you choose to follow through with charges, then I completely understand, but you know I'll just get them thrown out. Sounds like a waste of your office's time and taxpayer money, now doesn't it?"

Mosley appraised her for a long moment before saying, "that old kook got lucky having a lawyer for a daughter." Jo wasn't Arlo's daughter, not really, but she didn't bother correcting him on the ill-informed title.

Gathering up her things, "let him know I'll be waiting out front," Jo said while heading for the door.

With her hand on the knob, Hunter's next statement stopped Jo in her tracks. "Heard Raylan's back in Kentucky." The assertion held more weight than a casual observation.

"Aye, and you all would do best to stay out of his way," she announced before turning the handle and exiting the Sheriff's office.

It didn't take long before Arlo was meeting her out front, carrying a shit eating grin on his face. Jo directed him to her car, and they took off for his and Helen's house without a word being shared.

The ride was equally silent until Arlo interrupted the quiet. "You seen Raylan around lately?" Two mentions in less than thirty minutes had Jo resenting being the designated go-between the underside of Harlan and her adoptive brother.

"Yeah, saw him a few days ago. I'm assuming he hasn't called?" Jo knew damn well Raylan hadn't called his father or his aunt; he was smart enough to steer clear of the family drama by any means necessary. Jo wished she were as smart, but something, call it an obligation for taking her in when she had nowhere else to go, kept her wrapped up in the Givens' revolving door of trouble.

Arlo knew just as well that Jo's question was intended to be sarcastic, and barked out a laugh just as her car parked alongside his house.

Turning in her seat to look at the older man, Jo advised, "try and stay out of trouble, Arlo."

Another bark of laughter was all she received as he exited the vehicle and entered the old house as Jo watched on. She hadn't gotten so much as a thank you for her efforts in bailing him out; that was less than surprising.

After letting out an exasperated sigh, Jo took her car out of park and started the long drive back to Lexington. But, not before shooting off a text to Raylan letting him know that the next time Arlo got arrested, there would always be a next time, it was his turn to handle it because she had fallen on the grenade this time. His response was less than gentlemanly.


	6. Chapter 6

Next time came sooner than both Raylan or Jo anticipated. Not even three weeks after Jo had gotten him off on DUI charges, had Arlo gone and gotten himself arrested again. This time, for breaking into Helen's old house, the one Stan Perkins was renting, and trashing the place for good measure. Jo had thankfully been able to lob that slow ball off in the direction of Raylan, seeing as she had an appointment with a client at the Lexington courthouse.

Time for father and son to get reacquainted, Jo thought, hanging up the phone as her client approached. "Alright, Ms. Crowder, are you ready to meet with the US Attorney?" The blonde gave a weary smile while dropping her cigarette on the steps and stamping it out with her toe, "as ready as I'll ever be."

While Jo ushered Ava through the front doors, she briefly wondered if the woman beside her had mentioned to Raylan that his sister was representing her in the case regarding the shooting of her husband, Bowman Crowder. No, probably not, Jo surmised, otherwise Raylan would have brought it up. The whole thing was one big conflict of interest, one sibling being the lawyer and the other sibling being the lover. The courts would have a field day if they found out.

Ava and Jo had made themselves comfortable in one of the conference rooms when the Assistant US Attorney made his entry. These proceedings just kept getting better and better, Jo thought to herself, as a cheshire grin overtook her features.

"Miss Crowder….Miss Taylor. I'm Assistant United States Attorney, David Vasquez." The way David faltered on her name had Jo's smirk growing even wider, but she shook his hand cordially all the same. "Good to see you again, David," Jo said with a mocking air while sitting back in the uncomfortable office chair. Vasquez proceeded as though he hadn't heard her at all.

"Miss Crowder, I want to thank you for coming all this way to talk to me. Like I said on the phone, I just have a few questions about the night Boyd Crowder was shot. Normally, my assistant would take notes, but she's out sick today. Got someone to cover for her."

As Winona made her way into the meeting, Jo had to fake a cough in order to cover the snort that escaped from the back of her throat. Conflicts of interest indeed.

"Miss Hawkins, hope I didn't rush your lunch," David apologized while making room for her at the conference table. When she and Winona caught each other's eyes, Jo could only raise a brow in question. Surely, Winona didn't also know that Raylan was banging the blonde at the table? Things were about to go from zero to awkward.

David started back up again, but Jo could only hold her breath in anticipation. "Miss Crowder, I just want to ask you a few questions about the night Boyd Crowder was shot in your home by Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens." Bingo! There was the look of revelation on Winona's face that Jo had been waiting for. She, too, wanted to extract herself from this mess of a situation, but it was too late now.

After the meeting concluded, it appeared no one could vacate the conference room quick enough. Winona skipped off after Vasquez, no doubt in an effort to get herself recused from the proceedings. Ava was probably heading off in search of Raylan, and Jo had every intention of heading upstairs to see if she could bump into her own Marshall by happenstance.

Fate seemed in Jo's favor today. There she stood, waiting patiently for the ding announcing the elevator's arrival. When the bell did sound, standing on the other side of the opening doors was Tim Gutterson. Jo greeted him with a hand on her hip and a warm smile on her face. "You wanna get out of here?" She asked cheekily. Tim seemed momentarily surprised by her appearance at his place of work, but quickly recovered, and grabbed Jo's wrist to pull her alongside him into the closest empty courtroom.

"You staying long?" Tim asked while checking to ensure they were truly alone in the room. Once satisfied that they wouldn't be intruded upon, he returned to Jo, who was waiting just inside the doorway.

"I'm done for the day. Wanna go back to mine?" Jo asked while pulling suggestively at his belt buckle. Tim swatted her hands away, afraid that someone could walk in at any moment. Sometimes, he acted like such a Boy Scout, and the thought amused her.

"Yeah, you head out first, and I'll follow after," he instructed. Just like a Marshal, always doling out orders. "Perfect," she purred before pecking him on the lips and exiting through the courtroom doors.

Jo was straddling Tim's waist while they sat on her couch, trying in vain to yank the Marshal's shirt over his head, when her phone began vibrating on the coffee table behind them. "Ignore it," he commanded while littering her neck with open mouth kisses. "I was going to," she moaned, fumbling with his belt buckle for the second time that day.

Her phone vibrating from the third call in a row, finally halted their progress. Flipping the device over, Jo registered Raylan's name displayed on the screen with a huff. "I've got to take this," she announced, sitting back on the Marshal's thighs. Tim merely groaned in disappointment.

"Hello?" Jo answered after hitting the accept button.

"Jo? Took you long enough," Raylan's voice droned through the line.

"Well, I'm answering now," she snipped back. "What's up, Raylan?" Using her moment of distraction, Tim expertly unhooked her bra and, after throwing the offending material to the floor, began lashing her chest with attention. It took everything in her not to groan in response to his actions.

"Can you come to my motel room? We need to talk." Raylan's request snapped her attention away from Tim's ministrations and back to the telephone conversation.

Extracting herself from the Marshal, Jo walked into her kitchen and asked, "are you okay?" When she received a stout "no" from her brother, she knew her evening with Tim was going to be cut short.

"Alright, I'll head over," she assured before hanging up the phone.

After redressing, and promising Tim she'd make it up to him in the future, Jo drove to Raylan's motel room. Clearly, his day with Arlo had gone about as well as expected. Her brother was sitting outside at the rickety set of table and chairs when she pulled into the parking lot. Walking up to him, Raylan announced, "I'm going to be putting Arlo back in jail." Well, shit, she thought, before sitting down beside him.

_Sorry I was gone for so long. I'm very easily distracted. _


	7. Chapter 7

_Might need your assistance… _Read the text message Jo received from Raylan that morning. Of course he did. Since returning to Kentucky, Raylan hadn't acted like anything more than another manchild she had the privilege of babysitting.

Mentally preparing herself for the hurricane of issues her brother probably had in store, Jo quickly sent a return message. _I'm heading up._

Raylan and Art were locked away in the Chief's office when she entered. Strolling past the row of Marshal's desks lining the wall, Jo shot a quick wink and grin in Tim's direction before knocking on Art's door.

Waving her in, Art continued his speech to Raylan. "What if he'd had somebody with him?"

"He didn't," Raylan reassured. "Well, what if he did? What would you have done?" Art pressed again.

Closing the door gently behind her, Jo looked between the two Marshal's and asked, "what's going on here?"

"Raylan's got an interview with the AUSA later today. We're going over what he's gonna say," Art informed the newcomer.

After explaining the situation, the two men resumed their discussion. "What do you think I would have done?" Raylan questioned Art in return. "Well, I don't know, Raylan. I don't understand you," Art informed his growingly agitated deputy.

"If there was someone at the table, Art, I wouldn't have sat down," Raylan attempted to defend his actions. However, that was precisely the sort of statement which would get him into hot water with Vasquez.

Pointing his finger at Raylan accusingly, Art argued, "meaning that you were planning to shoot him before you sat down. See what I'm trying to say? This is a spirit-of-the-law, letter-of-the-law type of thing. Sure, the guy pulls on you first, you've got no choice to put him down, which is fine. Unless it looks like you maneuvered him into giving you no choice."

Finally, interjecting herself into the conversation, Jo agreed. "Art's right, Raylan. What you would have done is a reality that doesn't exist; you need to stick with the facts. What actually happened needs to matter more than your motivations behind approaching Bucks."

Grasping onto their rationale, Raylan reasoned, "you want me to tell Vasquez I don't think in what-ifs."

Art began pacing the office as he proceeded. "Yes. Don't let him bait you into speculating, because then you'll let your smart mouth talk you into a jackpot. This guy, Vasquez, he may be all right, but just don't give him any more than you have to. Just let Bucks' history as a maggot and the fact that all these people saw him go for his piece do your talking for you."

Jo was going to inform the two that Vasquez was anything but alright and that Raylan's gunslinger attitude would undoubtedly get him in trouble with the AUSA, but the words died on her lips as a commotion broke out in the next room.

Turning towards the source, Jo witnessed Tim leap out of his chair, gun trained on something across the room. Raylan and Art quickly drew their own weapons before storming out the office, leaving Jo alone watching the events unfold.

"He's got one guard down. He's got a shiv on the other," she heard Tim briefing from the safety of Art's office. Man, this Marshal's office was just a thrill a minute, she concluded.

Everyone switched into crisis management mode after that, and Jo found herself being escorted out the double doors by an agent she wasn't familiar with just as David Vasquez was entering.

"What's going on here?" He questioned upon seeing a room full of Marshal's with their guns at the ready. "Seems they've got a hostage situation," Jo revealed before adding, "I'll be back for Raylan's interview once this is all over." Then, she was deposited out into the hallway and away from the action.

Jo had hung around the courthouse, waiting for the issue to resolve itself. The resolution took longer than she would have anticipated, given Raylan's penchant for shooting criminals on sight, but, apparently, the drama reached its conclusion without any blood being shed. Hot fried chicken works wonders, or so it seemed.

After receiving the all-clear, Jo entered Art Mullen's office for the second time that day. The Chief was standing by his desk, while Raylan and David Vasquez sat at opposite ends of the sofa. Each man held a plastic cup filled with a shot of Jim Beam in their hand.

"Y'all started the party without me, I see," Jo teased from her position in the doorway. Leaning over, she relinquished Raylan of his glass of bourbon before draining the remaining contents herself.

Her brother looked peeved but made no comment. "Hey, when's our time-out up?" Both Art and David considered his question before the latter settled on, "you know what? We don't have to do this today."

Art jumped on the suggestion. "Not a bad idea. Why don't you take a rain check?"

However, Raylan was quick to counter the generous offer. "Just as soon get to it. You know, get it over with. Besides, Jo's already here." The frustrated look Art shot Raylan at his insistence was anything but subtle.

Shrugging his shoulders in surrender, David agreed, "no, no, that's fine. Okay. Let me get my briefcase."

As David left the room to retrieve the said briefcase, Art went about shutting the blinds, offering the illusion of privacy for their approaching interview. "Well, I got to say it. I owe you one on this one. I mean, this could've gone a whole other way. A violent hostage situation inside the Marshals' Office? Let's just say it could've been a real black eye. You managed to end this so quietly, I don't even think it's gonna make the papers," Art confessed.

Lifting himself off the couch, in favor of occupying a seat across from Art's desk, Raylan joked, "my sole purpose, my guiding principle, was to protect your reputation." Both Art and Jo chuckled at the assertion.

"And I appreciate it," Art exclaimed while shutting both office doors. "Now, remember. No what-ifs, no would-haves, just-"

Raylan interrupted his lecture, "just the facts, ma'am."

"Yeah, and if you're not sure, then keep your mouth shut," Jo contributed.

When David reentered the office, he situated himself behind Art's desk and began recording. "Deputy Marshal Raylan Givens, initial post-shooting interview. Also present, Chief Deputy Art Mullen, and attorney Jolene Taylor." Everything was normal, routine even, until Vasquez's first question dropped. "Deputy Givens, how would you characterize your relationship with Ava Crowder?"

"Don't answer that," Jo immediately commanded. "That's not relevant to the shooting of Tommy Bucks." David paid her no mind, though, as he began throwing down photos of Ava and Raylan in various compromising positions.

Art and Raylan leaned forward in their seats to appraise the photos, a look of horror overtaking each of their features. "Where'd you get those?" Raylan probed, but David brushed his inquiry off with a simple, "does it matter?"

"One of your meetings today with Bo Crowder and his lawyer?" Raylan pressed further, Art was decidedly silent in the seat next to him. "Whatever's going on with Ava and I, a jury's gonna take our word over Boyd's."

Jo placed a hand on Raylan's shoulder in an effort to quell his rapidly rising indignation. "They won't take your word if it has been compromised," she mumbled, seeing exactly where David was heading with this interview, and knowing it wasn't anywhere pleasant.

"Ms. Taylor is right. Do you honestly not see what Boyd Crowder's attorney's gonna put together from these? I'll tell you the story. The day before you ride back into town, Ava Crowder decides to ventilate her husband with a hunting rifle, okay? A few days after that, she stands by, holding a Marshal's Service shotgun…I believe that that's right. While you shoot Boyd Crowder in the very same house in the same room, on the same goddamn chair where his brother died. He will strongly suggest you began your relationship before your reassignment." Raylan audibly tsked at the notion, but Vasquez powered forward regardless. "No, he will, and you know what that means? We're gonna have to release Boyd Crowder."

"Release him?" "What?" Raylan and Art exclaimed at the same time.

"Yes, yes, because I don't have evidence that links him to any of the bank robberies. And the witness that we had from the church bombing failed to identify him. So now what?"

Art was rubbing his balding head in unease when he suggested, "so you get one of his guys to flip on the banks."

David merely chuckled at the recommendation. "Considering the life expectancy of a federal inmate who snitches on an Aryan Underground leader, I wouldn't hold my breath, Chief. Which means the only viable charges that we have against him are the kidnapping of Ava Crowder, and the attempted murder of a federal officer. Good charges, good charges, except that they're both predicated upon the testimony of Ms. Crowder and yourself. And now that you both have been compromised as witnesses, who's to say that Boyd Crowder didn't go to his sister-in-law's house that night for anything other than fried chicken?"

"What happens now?" Art voiced for the trio. "What happens now?" David repeated while he began collecting the papers and depositing them back in his briefcase. "Boyd Crowder pleads to a minor gun charge, gets sentenced to time served, and he walks. And we pray that he doesn't decide to sue."

Each face in the room held an exasperated look as David started to make his exit. Halting in the doorway, the AUSA made one final observation, "you want my advice? Just stay the hell away from Boyd Crowder. Stay away from her, too." And then he was gone.

Snapping his head towards Jo, Raylan interrogated, "can he really do that? Just let Boyd Crowder go?"

Jo had no good answers to offer him, so she settled on, "I think he just did."


	8. Chapter 8

"Fuck, Tim! I-" Jo panted underneath him, her knuckles turning white from the firm grip she held on the mattress. This was the best part of their relationship, no words actually needed to be exchanged; the other just instinctively knew what they desired in these moments of passion. Tim's movements quickened as Jo tumbled towards euphoria.

"How come we never talk about anything other than work?" Tim's voice broke through the silence of their afterglow.

"Aw, Marshal. You offended that I haven't taken a vested interest in your personal life?" Jo quipped. Her taunt received no audible response, just a hard stare from the man in question.

Abandoning the warmth of the now crumpled bedsheets, Jo retrieved one of Tim's button-ups off the floor and wrapped it around her nude figure. Looking at him expectantly, she said, "well, come on then," before heading off towards the kitchen.

From the counter, she retrieved a bottle of whiskey, and, after searching through several cabinets, two glass tumblers. Placing the items down on the kitchen table, Jo went about filling each glass with the amber liquid while Tim strode into the room, now wearing a set of boxers and nothing else.

Easing herself into one of the kitchen chairs with a tumbler in hand, Jo slid the other glass towards Tim's designated seat opposite hers. He raised a brow in inquiry but followed the silent directive nonetheless.

"You wanna ask, ask away, but it'll cost you a drink," she informed. He appraised her uncertainly while swirling the liquid around in his own tumbler, "What is this? We playin' twenty questions or something?"

Jo took a precursory swig from the glass before concluding, "something like that. Now, I know you've got questions you wanna ask, and I'll be damned if I'm answering them sober."

The two held eye contact, a silent challenge, until Tim finally nodded his head in agreement to the conditions. "Great. You feel free to start, shooter," Jo instructed with a grin.

Tim pondered for a moment, running through the endless list of questions he had for the brunette sitting across from him, before settling on, "what were your parents like?" The question wasn't a surprise; Jo's familial relationships had to have been weighing on his mind since the revelation that she was adopted into the Givens family.

After Tim took his mandated pull of whiskey, she finally answered. "They were junkies, criminals. Nothing out of the ordinary for Harlan County." The monotone way she said it, as though she were discussing the day's weather, had Tim's mind racing. "What happened to them?"

"Ah, ah, ah. That's two questions, buddy. It's no longer your turn," Jo chastised with a pointed finger. How quickly did she want to tread into dangerous territory, she wondered. Granted, he'd already brought up her traumatic childhood, so she thought her first question was only fair. "How often do you have nightmares?" Jo asked, then downed the contents in her glass.

"How do you know I have nightmares?" Tim shot back. That was the second question he'd asked out of turn, but she decided to let this one slide. "You all do," Jo responded, simply. The implication that she meant all men who had served in active duty, and not just men in general, was assumed without needing to be spoken. Copying her earlier actions, Tim drained his own tumbler before slamming it back on the kitchen table.

While Jo went about refilling both their glass, he finally admitted, "almost every night." She couldn't catch his eye after that; the Marshal almost looked ashamed at the suggestion that the horrors of war might still haunt him. "That must be hard," she offered in consolation.

Tim took another sip from his now refreshed tumbler, whether to calm his nerves or to abide by the rules of the game, it wasn't entirely clear. Again, he chose to question, "what happened to your parents, Jo?"

She let out a short sigh; it was the only indication given that the chosen topic bothered her at all. Her face and tone remained equally unaffected as she responded, "my mother died of an overdose, and my father disappeared not long after that. I was headed to foster care when Helen agreed to take me in."

Some spark of recognition flickered in Tim's mind at her confession, drawing upon a nearly forgotten memory. "I thought you said your father died?" He stated, remembering back to the first day she'd appeared in the Marshal's office, accosting Raylan. Jo's eyes flashed dangerously at his assertion. "He's dead," she insisted flatly, "and you're terrible at following the rules."

Blue clashed with brown as the pair held eye contact over the table. Jo dared him to drop the subject with her glare, and Tim searched for an explanation of the lie he'd caught her in with an assessing stare.

Ringing from the bedroom broke their silent confrontation. "You should get that," Jo insisted, welcoming the distraction. As Tim stalked off in the direction of his ringing phone, Jo expelled a breath she hadn't been aware she was holding. Finishing off the liquid in her glass, she embraced the corresponding burn the whiskey left as it traveled down her throat. She could vaguely hear Tim talking on the phone in the next room, but she was busy rejoicing the fact that he was no longer trying to speak to her. This had all gotten out of hand far too quickly; she wasn't trying to get familiar with the younger Marshal, that wasn't the point of their whole arrangement.

When Tim returned from the bedroom, he was dressed in jeans, a wife-beater, and an unbuttoned red flannel. "I've got to head to Harlan," he announced after registering Jo's look of confusion. "Lucky you," she returned sarcastically and got up from the kitchen table, intent upon getting dressed and leaving after him.

Her trek to the bedroom was halted when Tim informed her, "Raylan needs me to get into some veteran bar Arlo's at." Jo hovered in her steps before snapping her head to look at him. "So, you're getting to meet Daddy Givens? You should prepare yourself," then she disappeared into the bedroom.

No amount of preparation would have gotten Tim Gutterson ready to meet the infamous Arlo Givens.


	9. Chapter 9

Jo stumbled upon a mini traffic jam outside the elevator leading to the Marshal's Office that morning. Gary, Winona, and Raylan stood clustered together; the latter two held guilty looks upon their faces. Jo had to contain a bark of laughter from escaping her mouth when she heard Winona's current husband asking her ex-husband to go out for a drink sometime. Winona looked beyond horrified by the suggestion, while Raylan made up every excuse possible to escape the situation. Jo simply watched on in glee at the train wreck unfolding before her very eyes.

Once he'd finally shaken loose from the realtor, Jo followed Raylan into the office and asked, "were you dropped on your head repeatedly as a baby?" While the man in question situated himself behind his desk.

"Now, whatever could you mean, Jo?" Raylan returned sarcastically, shuffling around the paperwork on his desk in an effort to appear busy.

"I mean, I'm starting to think you're touched in the head, Raylan," she reasoned while perching herself on the edge of his desk. An offended scoff was the only thing she received in response. Leaning forward to whisper her next statement, without the danger of being overheard, Jo continued. "Not only did you shoot Arlo, not only are you screwing your ex-wife, but you're also getting mixed up with the Bennetts now too. Why must you insist upon inciting trouble?"

"How could you possibly know all that?" Raylan asked in shock. She merely dismissed his inquiry with a wave of the hand, "I know everything."

Before their discussion could proceed any further, Art and Tim wandered over to join the pair. Jo hadn't spoken to the younger Marshal since their confrontation the week prior, and from her peripheral, she could see him attempting to catch her eye. Jo wasn't giving in, however, and pretended as though he weren't present at all.

"Well, hello, Jolene," Art offered a chipper greeting. "How's it going, Chief?" She returned with a kind smile. "Oh, as well as can be expected with this one," he stated while vaguely gesturing in Raylan's direction.

"You know, I'm right here," Raylan announced, affronted at the notion of being discussed in front of his person. Both Art and Jo shared a chuckle at her brother's expense.

"I'm gonna need Raylan and Tim in the conference room to discuss their prison transport," Art announced, and Jo took that as her cue to leave. "Y'all have fun," Jo offered before exiting the Marshal's Office. No words nor acknowledgment were exchanged between her and Tim, and she figured that was probably for the best.

Jo was preparing for bed when a gentle tapping sounded from her front door. Lifting her .22 off the side table where it lay, she approached the door hesitantly. It was relatively late in the evening, and she wasn't expecting any visitors, she thought maybe Raylan was stopping by to finish their conversation from earlier. A look through the peephole had Jo dropping the firearm limply at her side as she opened the door, on the other end stood Tim Gutterson. She considered slamming the door in his face, but the melancholy look in his eyes, instead, had her opening the door wider to allow him passage into her home.

Jo returned the pistol to its previous location while Tim stomped into her kitchen like a man on a mission. Retrieving one of the many liquor bottles that graced her kitchen counter, he popped the top and took an impressive pull from the flask before setting her with a contemplative stare.

Jo crossed her arms under his appraising glance. "You wanna talk about it?" She asked hesitantly, his intense gaze and harsh silence had her unsettled. "No," came his stout reply before Tim marched over to her, collecting her in his arms and swept them into the bedroom. He was anything but gentle that evening, not that she minded.

After the pair's heavy breathing finally settled, Tim seemed to decide he did want to talk about it after all. "Have you ever heard of the apricot?" He voiced, lying next to her on the bed. Jo rolled over on her stomach to look at him, though his eyes remained trained on the ceiling. "I'm assuming you don't mean the fruit," she surmised.

"It's where the brain stem meets the spine," he informed quietly. There was no need to whisper, it was only the two of them, but this conversation just didn't seem right spoken at full volume. "Ah," Jo bowed her head, guessing at the direction his story was heading. "You had to shoot someone in the apricot tonight?"

Tim deftly nodded at her prediction, "he was going to shoot a pregnant woman through the belly." The declaration had Jo recoiling in disgust; there seemed to be no limit to the evils men were capable of committing. She really didn't know what to say after that; no platitudes would reverse the situation nor ease his guilt over taking a life, no matter how necessary his actions.

"You can stay the night," Jo offered as some sort of solace. Again, she only received a muted nod of the head from Tim in response. It was the first night either of them had stayed over, but she'd deal with the repercussions of opening that particular door tomorrow.


	10. Chapter 10

_How do you feel about Dave Alvin? _Read the text message Jo received from Tim several days after their little sleepover. The query held more significance to it than the innocent question it appeared at face value to be. Jo knew Dave Alvin was playing at a roadhouse some fifty miles outside Lexington that evening, as she was, in fact, a fan of the musician. Although, if Tim were asking, that meant he was considering requesting she attend the concert with him, and that sounded an awful lot like a date to her.

Jo weighed her options carefully. She could say no, and squash any ill-conceived notions of their relationship being anything more than just sex in its tracks. She could say yes, and see an artist she enjoyed with a man who, admittedly, wasn't terrible to hang around with. However, the second option would open a can of worms she wasn't entirely prepared to deal with just yet.

Almost as though Tim could sense her hesitancy through the device, he followed up with a second text message. _His concert is tonight, and far enough out that no one will see us._

Throwing caution to the wind, Jo figured, what was the worst that could happen? _Sure, let's do it._ What was the worst that could happen, indeed.

She'd had a late deposition scheduled, so Jo agreed to meet Tim at the bar once her work was finished. Unbeknownst to the pair, this had inadvertently been their saving grace. Neither was aware Winona had spotted the fellow Marshal from across the crowded roadhouse, nor her insistence that she and Raylan leave rather than getting caught in public together. By the time Jo made an appearance, the other couple had already fled the concert, and they were none the wiser.

Saddling up next to Tim at the bar, Jo placed a gentle had on his shoulder, alerting him to her presence. After exchanging pleasantries, she went about ordering her own beer from the bartender while Tim gave her a once over. He'd only ever seen her dressed in power suits or nothing at all; tonight, she wore a maroon sweater and some tight skinny jeans. The casual look suited her, he realized, so he commented, "you look nice."

Jo's face scrunched at the comment; she was never one to trust compliments or niceties of any kind. She believed flattery was only ever accompanied by someone wanting something in return. Lifting the beer to her lips, she took a sip before asking, "you wanna go find a table?" Unknowingly, they chose to occupy the very same table Winona and Raylan had previously vacated for fear of being caught together.

The two observed the concert in silence, both sat tense and awkward in their seats, but Jo drummed her fingers along to the music nonetheless. When a slower song began, Tim leaned over her chair, arm resting along the back, and whispered in her ear, "you know, I still owe you two questions." The feel of his breath on the shell of her ear had Jo suppressing a shudder. When her head snapped towards him, she found his face still hovered close to hers, the warmth from his arm burning through her sweater and into her back.

"You sure you wanna do this now, Deputy?" She challenged while leaning back in her chair, trying to create some much-needed space between them. Being seen together in public was one thing, but Jo certainly wasn't going to risk a full-blown make out happening in the middle of a crowded bar as Dave Alvin crooned in the background.

Tim took a sip of his beer and merely inclined his head in answer. Shifting in her seat to face the Marshal, Jo tuned out the concert continuing to take place in front of them. "Alright," she began, "why did you join the Army?" It was a simple enough question, one that didn't quite carry the same dramatics of their heated conversation weeks prior.

"My father was an asshole. I enlisted to get away from him," Tim confessed. "He died before I got back from basic." The topic of fathers was an already sensitive one, so Jo quickly proceeded to her final query, before he could choose to linger on the subject.

"Why did you invite me here tonight?" She questioned while pinning him down with a scrutinizing stare. Tim didn't answer immediately. He finished his beer, placing the now empty glass back on the tabletop, then turned to give her his full attention. God, Jo hated that look; it felt like he was attempting to read her mind when he gazed at her like that.

"Do you wanna hear the truth, or what'll make you happy?" Tim offered her a choice. Damn him for knowing that those two things weren't one and the same, she scolded silently. "What'll make me happy," Jo decided, he laughed lightly at her selection.

"Well, I thought you'd want to see Dave Alvin," Tim responded genuinely. Jo should have left it at that; her better sense told her to accept the given answer and drop the matter entirely. However, she found herself adding, against her better judgment, "and the truth?"

Tim leaned into her again, his breath and cologne washing over Jo like a cool autumn breeze. She shivered inadvertently from their close proximity. "I like being around you," he admitted, then turned back to watch the concert without paying her any further mind.


	11. Chapter 11

Jo was lounging around her house on a Sunday afternoon when Raylan called. Her eyes rolled of their own accord upon seeing his name displayed on the incoming call screen; one could only imagine what he would possibly want from her today.

"What's up?" Jo called through the line, not even bothering with so much as a hello. Raylan tsked at her short greeting, but answered, "I need you to take a quick trip down to Harlan with me." It wasn't a request, more of a statement. "I'm already on my way to pick you up." Alright, more of a demand than a statement even. Jo grumbled her acceptance to his less than generous offer before hanging up the phone.

Climbing into Raylan's town car, Jo buckled herself into the passenger's seat before asking, "we going to see Helen and Arlo?" She couldn't fathom any other reason for him to be dragging her down to Harlan County on the weekend. "No…" Raylan floundered for a moment then admitted, "we're going to see the Bennetts."

"Oh goddammit, Raylan," she exclaimed, contemplating jumping out of the moving vehicle rather than being a willing participant to these shenanigans. "I just wanna have a word with Mags, that's all," he assured, trying to quell her growing concerns. It didn't work.

"Yeah, and you wanna use me as a human shield should they decide to shoot you on sight," Jo huffed, crossing her arms in agitation. Raylan chuckled from the driver's seat at her antics. "Come on," he coaxed through a shit-eating grin. "Mags always liked you, and Coover was awfully sweet on you, if I recall correctly."

Her eyes were slits as she glared at his profile. "How're things with you and Winona, Raylan?" Jo snipped through clenched teeth. "Oh, that's enough of that," he stated before reaching over and turning up the volume on the radio, drowning at all further conversation.

Sunday Dinner was in full swing when Raylan and Jo pulled up alongside the Bennett's. Music was playing, kids were running in the yard, and the smell of barbecue cooking greeted the pair as they walked up the drive. Raylan addressed a teenage girl first, "Loretta McCready. What brings you up this way?" So, this was the girl he'd saved from being kidnapped by the pervert a few weeks prior. "Might ask you the same question," the girl returned, eyeing Jo in confusion.

Acknowledging the silent question, Raylan swiveled between the two women. "Loretta McCready, this is my sister, Jo. Jo, this here is Loretta McCready."

"Jo's a boy's name," Loretta commented immediately after the introductions were concluded. Jo liked her, she realized with a chuckle, the kid had spunk. "Jo's short for Jolene," she informed with a smile while Doyle Bennett approached the group.

"Raylan, Jo, what's this about? Come up for a little Sunday dinner?" The eldest Bennett interrogated, shaking Raylan's hand.

Raylan responded with his usual measure of lawman swagger, "well, you know how the job is, Doyle. Nights and weekends is when all the good stuff happens. Task force never rests." He knew exactly what the hell he was doing with that last comment, and his taunt seemingly landed because Doyle asked uncertainly, "task force?"

Feigning bewilderment, Raylan stated, "what, they didn't…" Doyle shook his head at the implied question. "Well, I'm sure they'll be contacting you directly."

Stepping around Doyle, Raylan began making his way towards the Bennett matriarch, with Jo in tow, while Doyle continued to mutter behind them. "Well, task force or no, you're stepping outside yourself, showing up at my family home, aren't you?"

"Raylan Givens. Uninvited don't mean unwelcome, Doyle," Mags Bennett chastised her eldest son. Seeing Jo lingering behind her brother, she added, "Jolene Taylor, as I live and breathe. Come here, sugar." Then, Mags collected the younger woman into a not entirely unwelcome bear hug. Jo knew the Givens' and the Bennetts had bad blood between them, but the latter had never been anything but friendly to her. Sometimes, too nice, when it came to Coover's less than subtle advances.

After Mags had finished her greetings, she offered the two a plate, which they politely declined. In turn, Raylan presented the apple pie he'd brought, a poor peace offering in comparison to the hornet's nest he was fixing to kick up. Accepting the gift, Mags told the pair she'd be giving them each a batch of apple pie moonshine for the road, and then Raylan busied himself handing out Marshal trinkets to the children. These were just formalities, shows of decency to delay the eventual confrontation waiting to unfold.

Once the children were all ushered inside, the adults gathered around a picnic table. Now, it was time for the real business to start. Jo took a seat next to Raylan, which was, unfortunately, across from Coover. The youngest Bennett leered at Jo from his seat, staring at her like she was a piece of meat. "You grew up real pretty, Jolene," he announced while stuffing his face with chicken. The way Coover said her name had Jo cringing, she'd always found him creepy.

"What's on your mind?" Mags prompted, ignoring her son's unsolicited advances.

"Wondering if you know of a man name of Bobby Lawton?" Raylan asked. Dickie closed his eyes in…was that guilt?

"Bobby Lawton. Name doesn't ring a bell," Mags assured. Coover and Dickie shared a poignant look over the table as Raylan continued. "Fella got killed on that Oxy bus a few days back. Turns out, he was a foot soldier for the Dixie Mafia out of Frankfort."

Mags chuckled at the notion. "Dixie Mafia? Lord! That sounds like a mighty dangerous outfit."

"They've been known to be, yeah," Raylan smiled disingenuously in return. "Such that hitting their drug pipeline ain't something we imagine that these hijackers would have undertaken on their own initiative. I believe your boy Doyle inquired as to who they worked for."

Doyle, who had been watching on in silent judgment, finally inserted, "yeah, I asked them. They drew down on me."

Mags' face wasn't laughing any longer, as Raylan proceeded. "Right. Had no choice but to put them down. Well, one of the hijackers, name Elrod Platt, we got his cell phone records. Week before the hijacking show he had numerous conversations with Dickie." Mags' head whipped around to appraise a thoroughly shameful looking Dickie.

Dickie chortled mockingly, "yes, he did speak to Dickie. I spoke to Elrod about buying an ATV for the business." It was amazing how career criminals could still be such terrible liars.

"We may never be able to prove otherwise. But I want you to know that I know what's going on, out of respect." Mags seemed to balloon up with silent rage at Raylan's insinuation. Leaning forward on the picnic table, she barked, "Marshal, you know I deal a little weed. And neither of you can tell me you haven't smoked a little reefer," she referred to both Jo and Raylan, who bobbed their heads in agreement. "And you know my position on Oxy and meth and the rest. And yet you find it acceptable to come in here and bust in on my family dinner, asking if I've had a hand in robbing a bus full of shit from a bunch of Frankfort peckerwoods." Mags was on her feet now, towering over Raylan as she fumed.

However, Raylan managed to remain calm and reasoned, "Mags, I never asked if you robbed that bus."

Mags was shaking her head and her hands in Raylan's face now. "No, no, no. You're just being all clever, insinuating without asking. That why you brought the lawyer along, trying to stir things up. That it?" Jo guessed all the necessities heading in her direction had dried up at this point.

"You tell me, Mags. Is it working?" Raylan challenged.

"Let me ask you something, Raylan. Why do you care so much? Come on, now child. Gonna sit there on my lumber and tell me this has got nothing to do with the history between our families? With why my boy there hasn't walked right for the past 21 years?" Mags gestured to Dickie deftly with her last question.

Raylan suddenly got up to his feet, and everyone at the table tensed. "Frankfort mob gonna come over that hill bringing hell with them because of that bus. They'll stay till they've bled this county white. Whatever our family history, Mags, that's why I care."

Everyone held their breath in anticipation until the tension was broken by Mags again asking if they would like her to fix them a plate. Again, Jo and Raylan declined.

"No one wants to see a war break out in Harlan," Jo reasoned before the two took their leave back to Lexington. "Whether they be a Givens or a Bennett."

In the following days, Jo and Raylan wouldn't be the only ones experiencing their fair share of family drama. Rachel Brooks' brother-in-law, Clinton, who had accidentally killed her sister while driving high, returned to the female Marshal's life in a flourish of bullets and mayhem.

The ensuing chaos concluded with Rachel shooting a drug dealer named Flex, who was threatening to murder Clinton. At least, that's what the bits and pieces of information Jo had collected from Raylan, and Tim respectively told her.

It was undoubtedly an unfortunate situation to be in, and Jo could empathize with all parties involved. Clinton and Rachel both loved and missed her sister, Shawnee; they just didn't go about handling their loss in the same ways. It didn't help that there was an innocent twelve-year-old boy caught in the crossfire.

Family dynamics were hard, and Jo knew that better than anyone. Perhaps that sentiment is what brought her to the Marshal's office late one evening.

The room was completely empty except for Raylan and Rachel. The elder of the two appeared to be on his way out when Jo entered. "You will. But if you ever have any serious doubts, ask me. I'll tell you. You did what had to be done," she overheard Raylan saying from her spot in the doorway. When he turned to leave, his face held a look of surprise at seeing her blocking his exit.

"You here for me?" He questioned, pointing a finger at his chest, but Jo simply shook her head in decline. "I'm actually here for Brooks," she answered, turning towards the woman who looked utterly shocked by her admission. "I'm going for a drink, would you care to join me?"

Rachel appeared to mull it over for a moment, before finally agreeing to the offer. Ironically, they ended up at the same dive bar where she'd first met Tim.

The two women stared silently at their drinks until Jo mustered the courage to say, "Nick will end up alright. Having messed up parents doesn't guarantee you'll be a messed up adult." And then, to add levity to the conversation, "look at Raylan and me, we're super well adjusted." Her comment had its desired effect, as Rachel burst out laughing at the suggestion that Raylan was anything close to well adjusted.

"I know, I just worry how he's going to end up," Rachel confessed now that the ice had been broken. Jo contemplated her concerns for a moment, and offered, "sometimes in life, you're given good options, and sometimes you have to make them for yourself. I'm sure you and your mother can help guide Nick towards those better choices."

Rachel smiled gently at the sentiment, though she might not have entirely believed it herself. After a long pause, the Marshal stated, "I know about you and Tim."

Jo only shrugged at the confession. "I figured you were the smart one in that office."


	12. Chapter 12

Jo was waiting outside Raylan's motel room when his town car and Tim's SUV pulled into the parking lot. Rising from the shaky deck chair she'd been sitting in, she called, "what the hell happened tonight?" Both men sighed in unison at her question, stomping their way up the motel steps to meet her on the porch.

"Somebody put a hit out on Raylan," Tim answered when it became clear that the man in question had no intention of responding to his sister. That wasn't exactly the explanation Jo had been expecting, but given Raylan's tendency to royally piss off bad guys, it wasn't all that surprising either. "Yeah, and now I've been assigned a nanny," he grumbled in displeasure while unlocking the motel door.

"Welcome to the time-honored tradition of babysitting Raylan, Gutterson," Jo mocked, patting him on the shoulder. Tim chuckled, Raylan decidedly did not.

Trailing after him through the now open door, the younger Marshal commented, "I don't suppose you got one of them suites with a pull-out couch." The look Raylan shot him implied the contrary.

Extracting various items from within his pockets, Raylan began unloading the pieces onto his wardrobe while asking, "you got any buddies became contractors when they got out?"

"Why?" Tim questioned in return, setting his rifle down on a nearby table. "The hitters from last night," Raylan stated as though his train of thought were obvious.

"Is that why that CID guy showed up? Yeah, Art says I'm not supposed to talk to you about that." Raylan chose to dismiss Tim's taunting tone entirely. "Contractors? He pressed again.

Tim shared a quick glance with Jo, one that said, 'you might as well tell him,' before succumbing to the interrogation. "Yeah. Most of those guys are okay. Some of them, though, they get home, find out they can't hack it back in the world without the mad minute and start hiring out for wet work." Is that why Tim had joined up with the Marshal's Service after being discharged from the Army, to satiate his compulsive need for the mad minute? Jo chose not to dwell on the prospect.

Raylan seemed to consider his fellow deputy's assessment for a minute, "I'll call the front desk, see if I can get you a cot." The offer was quickly declined, however, "I got a sleeping bag in the trunk." Tim began to leave but halted promptly in his steps next to Jo. "Make sure he doesn't leave out the window or anything while I'm gone." She shot him a quick wink in acknowledgment.

Again, Tim turned to exit out the front door, intending to retrieve said sleeping bag from the trunk, but again his progress was interrupted. "No, I'm not leaving. Not right now. I'm beat," Raylan announced. "Plus, you got your car here. Even if I got a jump on you, you'd be right behind me."

The underlying warning to his words was evident, but Tim clarified anyway, "but you will eventually." Raylan's tone was too casual as he confirmed, "eventually, yes."

Jo scoffed at her brother's childish behavior. She'd dealt with this insufferable obstinance from Arlo, from Helen, and from Raylan much of her life, she'd grown accustomed to the defiant nature Harlan County seemed to breed. Outsiders, though, weren't readily equipped to handle such behavior. "Come on, Raylan, don't be a dick." Tim appreciated her show of support but was determined to handle the older Marshal his own way. "Why would you do that?" Tim asked in vexation.

Rolling up his sleeves, Raylan stated, as if the explanation were evident, "well, I gotta talk to some people, alone. So, either you let me go, or I'm gonna have to give you the slip."

The next comment out of Tim's mouth had a bark of laughter escaping Jo's throat. "I love this shit. This shit makes me hard."

"Well, then we've both been warned," Raylan concluded before entering the restroom, leaving Tim and Jo alone in the motel room. Pivoting towards one another, Jo whispered, "you wanna have a quickie while he's in the bathroom?" Despite her appealing offer, Tim merely rolled his eyes at the proposition. Ever the Boy Scout, he wasn't going to risk distraction while assigned to protective duty.

Releasing an audible sigh, Tim wrapped his hand around her bicep, and dragged Jo out of the motel room, snapping the door shut behind them. He finally released the vice grip he held on her arm once they were standing beside her vehicle. "It's time for you to go, Jo," he insisted, albeit begrudgingly. She pouted like a child in turn, and set her doe eyes upon him, "I thought you liked being around me."

Tim groaned, she was trying to bait him, repeating back at him the words he'd used during the Dave Alvin concert weeks prior, but he wasn't falling for it. Although, seeing her plump bottom lip jutting out at him while she pouted, was making him seriously reconsider her earlier offer. "I do, and that's exactly why you've gotta leave."

"Fine, I'll go," she said while throwing her hands up in mock surrender. "You have fun shadowing the idiot." Jo turned to open the driver's side door but found herself immediately spun back around towards Tim. He looked unsure for a moment, but then his hand quickly woven into the hair at the back of her neck and pulled her towards him. Their lips met in a searing kiss, one that cleared all stray thoughts from her mind as she grasped onto his arms in desperate need of grounding.

When he pulled away, both instinctively looked towards the motel room, ensuring Raylan hadn't wandered out to witness their little display. They each let out a relieved breath upon seeing the door remained closed, or maybe their shaky breathing was from their racing hearts, who could really say.

"I'll call you," Tim assured before placing one final kiss upon her lips. Jo reluctantly climbed into her car and drove away from the motel.

When Tim said he'd call, Jo hadn't been anticipating it to be quite so early the next morning. "Raylan ditched me in the middle of a damn convenience store," he grunted through the line. She tried to contain her laughter at his expense, "well, of course he did."

"Do you know where he might be headed?" He pressed further. Jo thought for a minute, who would Raylan assume sent hitters after him? She knew the obvious answer, but that wasn't a direction she was particularly fond of sending the younger Marshal in. However, she knew he took his job seriously, even if that job was simply babysitting Raylan, so she confessed, "he'll be heading down to Bennett, to speak with Mags." Before Tim could hang up on her now that his answer had been received, Jo added, "and, I know you could've just tracked his cellphone. Did you wanna hear my voice or something?" He ended the call without another word.

The hour was late when a faint knocking sounded from her front door. This time, Jo wasn't startled by Tim's presence on the other side, spending a full day with Raylan Givens would give anyone cause to blow off some steam.

"I think I wanna kill Raylan," he muttered, walking past her into the living room. "Well, you're at the bottom of a very long list," she grinned through a yawn.

He'd clearly interrupted her rest, Tim would have known that even if it weren't ridiculously late in the night. Her hair was tousled and her face was clear of makeup, but he found himself preferring this version of Jo. When she wasn't immaculately put together, when she appeared disarranged, she was far easier to read. "Why do you always look at me like that?" She interrupted his musings.

Taking measured steps towards her, he asked, "look at you like what?" Letting out a sigh, Jo confessed, "when you look at me like you're trying to read my mind." Tim only wished he could read her mind, but her thoughts seemed firmly locked away behind layers and layers of impenetrable glass.

The two silently considered each other for some time, standing in her living room. Slowly, as though he were afraid she'd flinch away from his touch, Tim raised his hand to rest on her cheek. Jo found herself leaning into the contact despite herself. The warmth he offered was irresistible, and the realization terrified her beyond belief.

"Because you never say much," he admitted while absentmindedly stroking her cheek with his thumb. "I prefer not talking," she said with a glint in her eye. There it was, the retreat to innuendo when anything got too real or too uncomfortable. Tim decided to humor her this time.

"Jump," he instructed, and she swiftly obliged. Wrapping her legs around his waist, Tim's forearm underneath Jo's thighs supported her weight while his other hand worked to draw their faces together.

Stumbling into the kitchen, Tim placed her gently on the dining room table while she peppered his throat and jaw with feverish kisses. Jo had thrown on a short, silk robe before answering the door, and Tim set about untying it slowly. His fingers danced lightly across the exposed skin as he drew back the soft material. Goosebumps rose in the wake of his caressing fingers. The night air on her skin felt cool, but his touch burned a trail across her flesh.

Dropping to his knees in front of her, Jo's fingers threaded through Tim's short blonde hair while he lavished her with far more attention than she felt she deserved.

_Does anyone actually read and like this story? It's fine if I'm just out here doing this for me._


	13. Chapter 13

_A teenage Jo sat patiently on a plastic chair in the waiting room. She'd managed weeks alone before anyone noticed, but when the unpaid bills started stacking up, people began asking questions. Eventually, they'd realized that the girl was living by herself in that ramshackle house, no parent in sight, and had reported the orphan to Child Protective Services. How sad, they all whispered behind her back, momma dead and now her daddy just up and left her alone. She knew she was better off alone, though, if only they'd leave her to her business._

_Foster care was where she was inevitably headed; no distant relatives would prove to be her savior now. She'd be shipped off to live with strangers who didn't understand her, and whom she didn't trust. Burying her head in her hands, Jo wondered if things had played out differently, could she have avoided this situation altogether. Probably not, she accepted, a thirteen-year-old running around solo would have eventually drawn some unwanted attention, even in Harlan County._

"_Get up, girl. We're leaving," called a female voice. Jo slowly lifted her head from her hands to find Helen Givens standing in front of her, arms crossed, and a knowing smile on her face. The Givens' and the Taylors had been friendly before the passing of her mother, and she was fairly certain her father and Arlo had run a scam or two together in the past, but she couldn't fathom why the older woman would be here now. "Why? Where are we going?" She asked quietly, remaining motionless in her plastic chair._

"_You're coming home with me," Helen answered simply, before exiting the waiting room. Jo followed after her quickly._

_The car ride back to Harlan was tensely silent. Jo couldn't decide what this new development meant for her future. Had Helen agreed to babysit her till the state found her a suitable foster family, or was this something more? Withdrawing one hand for the steering wheel, Helen carefully laid her palm on the younger girl's knee, but Jo instinctively flinched away from the unexpected touch. Sighing sadly, Helen promised, "you get nothin' to be afraid of anymore," but drew her hand back all the same. The last remaining Givens matriarch always seemed to know more than she let on._

A faint buzzing tried to shake Jo from the dream, from the memory, but she was defiant. Burrowing her face further into the surface she was resting upon, she willed the noise to cease, to allow her the opportunity to drift back into the past. "Jo, that's yours," a hoarse voice whispered above her. That's right, Tim had stayed the night, and the surface she was currently nestled into were the firm planes of his chest. She merely groaned and squeezed her eyes shut at the statement.

"That's the fourth call in a row," Tim observed, his voice, while still husky from sleep, sounded more awake now. Lifting herself off his person, Jo blindly groped around for her cellphone on the bedside table. "Hello?" She answered tiredly, not bothering to check who it was that had disrupted her slumber.

"Jo…" Raylan's voice rang uncertainly through the line. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" She asked, though the clock next to her bed told her it was just after 4 AM.

"I know," he admitted wearily. "It's just…" Again, Raylan wavered in his speech on the other line. He was never one to be at a loss for words, and the realization had her sitting up in bed, concerned. "Helen's dead," he finally announced after a heavy pause. Jo's mind began running at a mile a minute, but she settled on expelling an uneasy breath and said, "I'll head right down."

Throwing the sheets off her body, Jo mutely began dressing herself. Tim watched from his seated position in the bed as she wandered through the bedroom, into the bathroom, and back again, readying herself for the day. Her silence was deafening and worrying. "Where are you going?" He finally asked as she stood in the middle of the bedroom, locking her watch into place around her wrist.

"Down to Harlan," she answered shortly. She wasn't looking at him, hadn't thrown so much as a glance in his direction since ending the phone call. If Jo was hard to read on a good day, she appeared almost empty now. Leaning over to read the clock, Tim took in the early hour and questioned further, "at this time? Why?"

Jo halted in her movements and finally turned towards him. "Helen's dead. Can you let yourself out?" There was no inclination in her voice, no emotion lacing her tone. Everything about her was flat at that moment, from her expression to her posture. He nodded deftly in agreement, and she took her leave of the bedroom.

Raylan and Jo arrived at their childhood home in time. A look was shared, but no words were exchanged as they walked up the path leading to the front door in unison. A mass of emergency vehicles crowded the property. Trooper Tom Bergen met them on the patio, but neither particularly listened to the words he offered. Inside the doorway sat a gurney carrying Helen's body in a brown bag. That was it, that's what was left of the motherly figure they both shared.

Raylan continued through the crime scene, observing, not as a grief-stricken nephew, but with the dissecting eyes of a lawman. However, Jo didn't follow. She wasn't interested in reveling in the tragedy, so, instead, she made her way upstairs. At the end of the hallway, sat the door to her old bedroom. Turning the knob, she pushed the rickety door open to reveal the room behind.

Everything was as she'd left it. Her old hairbrushes lay on the dresser. Outdated clothing hung in the closet. A wrinkled poster of Dolly Parton sat on the wall, aged and yellowed by time.

The air held within the room was musty from disuse, but everything else remained the same. Jo hadn't lived in this house for several years, but everything remained in place, almost as if it had been awaiting her return.

"_I know it isn't much," Helen confessed after showing a teenage Jo to her new room. There was a bed, covered in a worn pastel pink quilt, and a few pieces of furniture, but nothing extravagant. Some of her personal items littered the room, so they must have gone and collected those from her old house before bringing her here. "I want this to feel like your home," Helen continued, placing a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder. This time, she didn't flinch away from the contact._

The air suddenly became too stifling in the old bedroom, so Jo wandered back downstairs to find Arlo and Raylan huddled in the living room. The former was loading bullets into his revolver and shells into his shotgun. "Who are you loading those bullets up for?" Raylan questioned, even though all three knew the obvious answer. "You know damn well who," Arlo drawled in return.

"The Bennetts? You think it was the Bennetts?" Raylan surmised, collecting the dress for Helen's funeral in his hands. "You killed Coover. Now your aunt is dead. You suppose that's a coincidence, lawman?" Arlo taunted.

"You've got your fair share of enemies too, Arlo," Jo defended, but her observation fell entirely on deaf ears. "No, I don't suppose that's a coincidence," Raylan begrudgingly admitted. "So, you're gonna charge off, guns blazing, and kill 'em all? That it?"

"Not all," Arlo assured, his fingers never halting in their actions. "Which ones?" Raylan shot back.

"Mags didn't come in here with no shotgun. And Doyle wouldn't do this kind of thing," Arlo assessed, pinning his prodigal son with a hard stare. "So it's just Dickie you're after, then," Raylan concluded with a slight nod of the head.

There was still one particular detail about the previous night that bothered both Jo and Raylan, though. The latter simply voiced it first, "where were you? Huh? Where were you? I find it odd that she got killed at 2:00 in the morning. Where were you?"

Arlo immediately became defensive at the implication behind Raylan's words, "hell is that supposed to mean?"

Raylan's voice began to rise as he retorted, "I'm just wondering where you were." Continuing to rack loads into the shotgun, Arlo explained, "Helen ain't dead because I wasn't here. She's dead because you killed one of theirs."

The notion that lifetime career criminals could still be such terrible liars spun around in Jo's head as she watched Arlo deflect question after question. "You still haven't told us where you were, Arlo," she voiced only to be ignored again by the feuding men.

"If you two cared at all about her, you'd be loading up your guns, too. All she did for you-" Arlo's insensitive muttering was cut short when Raylan and Jo began shouting in unison.

"I know exactly what she did for me! I certainly don't need to be reminded of it by you!" Raylan barked. "Of course I cared about her! You think I didn't appreciate everything she did for me?" Jo seethed in turn.

Knocking on the front door interrupted their rapidly escalating argument, and behind the screen stood Ava and Boyd Crowder. Jo wasn't interested in hearing anything the pair had to say at that moment, so when Arlo ushered them in with open arms, Jo exited the door while they entered. Standing in the yard, she could hear the blood rushing through her ears as she scornfully observed the Givens family's gravestones. She'd never been gifted her own, a relentless reminder that Jo wasn't actually kin, no matter the time spent with Arlo, Helen, or Raylan. She'd always be an outsider, forever intruding upon their dysfunctional family simply because her own had abandoned her.

Raylan joined her sometime later, and the two stood in silence while considering the headstones. Eventually, Jo interrupted the quiet to ask, "what're we gonna do now?" Raylan pauses briefly, but answered with a harrowing sigh, "whatever needs to be done."


	14. Chapter 14

Despite Raylan's earlier inclination, he'd ditched Jo at the Givens' house in favor of undertaking his crusade alone. Something about it not being safe for her to tag along, and him feeling more comfortable knowing she wasn't in danger. She thought it was all bullshit, but followed his directives to sit and say nonetheless.

Arlo had dipped out too, no doubt to chase after the same Bennett son Raylan was, so she was left alone in the active crime scene with nothing but her thoughts to occupy her.

Living here hadn't always been easy. After all, the house seemed to act as a revolving door of mischief for shitkickers. And, certainly,, Raylan had had a much tougher go of it, but anything would have been better than Jo's previous circumstances. Arlo had merely humored the young girl's presence in his home, while Helen doted upon Jo as if she were her own daughter.

Growing up, Jo had always done well in school, she was an honor roll student several years running. No one quite knew where those smarts came from, given her parentage, but after finishing high school, she'd been offered a scholarship to West Virginia University, which she readily accepted. Law school had followed shortly after that, and it appeared she'd escaped the holler for good. That is, until she was inevitably dragged back to Kentucky by a sense of obligation to Helen and Arlo. Perhaps it was her upbringing amongst criminals that had driven a young Jo towards being an attorney. It seemed no matter how hard one ran to escape the past, it always managed to catch up with you.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the buzzing of her cellphone. She assumed Raylan would be calling with an update on his progress, but it wasn't Raylan. Tim's name flashed on her caller ID, and she was hesitant in answering. What was she supposed to say to him? No doubt, he wanted to offer his condolences after her abrupt exit that morning, but was she really all that interested in hearing them?

Mulling it over, Jo eventually answered the call before it could roll over to her voicemail. "Hello?"

"Jo, hey," Tim whispered into the other line. She assumed he was at work and had stolen a brief moment away from the action that was Marshal business to call her in secret. "How're you doin'?"

She audibly scoffed at the question, "how do you think I'm doing?" He must have been taken aback by her unexpected show of hostility because there was a strained pause before he continued. "Well, I was just callin' to check up on you."

Jo pinched the bridge of her nose in agitation, "I don't need anyone checking up on me." This conversation clearly wasn't going the way the younger Marshal had planned, from the tired sigh that echoed from his end. Jo didn't know what he expected of her. Was she supposed to cry so he could comfort her? She hadn't cried in years, and she wasn't going to start now. There would be no boohooing over the phone to her glorified booty call.

"I could-" Tim began but stalled. Jo gave no indication that he should continue from her end, she gave no indications at all, just sat staring blindly at the adjacent wall. "I could come down for the funeral."

His offer snapped Jo out of her previous stupor, and back into her harsh reality. "Why? Why would you do that?" She snapped in trepidation. Before he could answer, she began laughing sardonically. "What? You're gonna come down here as a fellow Marshal to pay your respects? Don't be ridiculous, Tim, you never even met Helen."

To be fair, Tim hadn't really done anything to warrant her anger. He was being kind and attempting to be supportive, but Jo had asked for none of it. What did he think, that suddenly her adoptive mother being murdered changed things? It changed nothing, and she was planning on making that astonishingly clear.

Despite his better judgment, Tim made one final attempt to reach her, knowing good and well his efforts would be rebuffed. "I could come down for you." Again, her same sarcastic laughter rang bitterly through the line at his proposition.

"Yeah, let's do that. Let's explain to everyone how we were busy fucking while Helen got blown away by a shotgun." Jo promptly hung up, leaving the devastating sentiment ringing through both their ears.

Somber and stiff was the atmosphere of the funeral service held days later. Raylan had arrested Dickie Bennett for Helen's murder, but it didn't excuse the hand Arlo and Boyd Crowder had played in her death.

"I wanted to kill him, but I couldn't," Raylan confessed after turning Dickie over to the authorities. He and Jo sat sharing a drink in silence, encased in the stale darkness of their childhood home. "Then you're not really your father's son after all," Jo offered in consolation. He chuckled lightly at her observation from behind his glass of bourbon.

"But you're your father's daughter, is that it?" Raylan asked while pinning her down with an analyzing stare. Jo drained the remaining liquid in her glass, wincing at the ensuing burn. "Looks like it," she concluded.

Jo hadn't spoken to Tim since their disastrous phone call either. Hadn't forgiven him for overstepping the firm line that kept their relationship in check. Yet, no matter how much she tried to push him from her mind, to lock him out, the blonde Marshal seemed to worm his way back in every time. Watching Winona comfort Raylan at the funeral, had Jo wondering if she were even capable of possessing that type of love and affection for another human being. She hadn't before, and odds are she never would.

The wind whistled through the hills as the funeral service took place. It wasn't a large crowd that had gathered, but Helen's casket was covered in a mass of beautiful flowers nonetheless.

The solemn day progressed as though the sound were muted. They ate, people offered their condolences to the family, they accepted them respectfully, and then the whole ordeal was done.

Jo's place in Lexington was eerily quiet, seemed all too empty, when she arrived back home. Regardless, she prepared herself for bed, for work the next day, as if nothing had changed.

Jo was exiting courtroom four, briefcase in hand, when a flustered Winona approached her. Raylan's ex-wife had barely contained tears behind her eyes, and the observation put her on edge. "Winona, what's going on?" Jo asked wearily, ushering the other woman to a nearby alcove where they could speak privately.

"Raylan went down to Harlan this morning. You know there are people down there who want him dead." Jo didn't quite see the problem in her statement. Raylan was always in Harlan, and there were always people wanting him dead. What made today so special? "And, I know I'm being all emotional because I'm pregnant but-"

The last comment had Jo interrupting her rant, "you're pregnant?" Winona smiled proudly despite being visibly upset. "Yeah, you're gonna be an aunt." Whatever Jo had been expecting, her announcement wasn't it, but she drew Winona in for a quick hug regardless.

Pulling away from their brief embrace, Winona continued, "but I'm worried about Raylan. I have a really bad feeling." Who was Jo to question a mother's intuition? "Alright, then let's go talk to Art," she offered, guiding them both to the elevator.

"Winona! Jolene!" The chief called in greeting as the pair approached his office. "Art. Can we talk?" Winona questioned in the doorway. They were ushered in with a wave while the door shut behind them.

"Now, dear, as fond as I am of you, I hope this is not about Glynco," Art began, but Winona quickly shook her head to indicate the contrary. "No. Raylan went to Harlan this morning. He seems to think Loretta's in trouble or that she's gonna get herself in trouble." Art's subdued reaction was on par with Jo's earlier one, so Winona pressed forward. "Art, he went back to Harlan. There are people there who want him dead."

"I imagine he's aware of that," Art responded simply. "Well, the Marshals need to help," Winona demanded as the tears began welling in her eyes.

The chief drew his eyes away from Winona, to Jo who was standing silently near the door. He seemed to consider their situation before concluding, "Winona, whatever Raylan is doing over there is on his personal time."

"Art, please. Come on. You got to help him," Winona continued to plead. Art briefly shook his head, "sometimes you just can't help."

Finally, Jo decided to insert herself into the conversation before the other woman began openly sobbing. "Winona, can you step outside so I can have a word with the Chief?" The woman in question bowed her head slightly, before stepping outside the office.

Once they were alone, Jo released a shaky breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "I know what you're going to say, Art, but I just want you to listen." She received a curt nod in response, her silent indication to continue. "Now, I know Raylan's difficult. Lord, do I know, but I also know he's a good man. Raylan's the type of person who'll do whatever he believes to be right, even if he goes about it the wrong way, but he's rarely ever wrong. And, Winona's rarely ever wrong about him. If he's in trouble, then, please go help him. For me, it's one of the few times I'll ask for a favor."

Her words seemed to have their desired effect because all of the Marshal's Service rallied to go save Raylan in Harlan, but not before the man in question took a bullet and a beating for his troubles.

That evening, Jo showed up unannounced, uninvited, and possibly unwelcome. Sure, he'd done the same to her a number of times, but never the reverse. Rapping lightly on the door, she waited anxiously for an answer, her hands wringing at her sides.

Tim didn't look entirely pleased with seeing her standing on the other side of his front door. Posting up in the entrance, his eyes bore down on her under the dim lighting of his porch. "What do you want, Jo?" His tone was brisk, and she felt she deserved it. "Can we talk?" She asked softly.

He paused for a moment, seemingly weighing his options, before opening the door further to allow her entry into his home. Standing awkwardly in his living room, Tim waited with crossed arms for her to break the silence between them. "I'm sorry, okay? I know I shouldn't have snipped at you like that," she finally confessed under the pressure of his scrutinizing stare.

He laughed humorlessly at her admission. "We're callin' that a snip?" Jo threw her hands up in exasperation. She was trying her best to apologize, why couldn't he make it easy on her? "I know, alright? I know. I was upset, but that didn't give me any right to take it out on you. Cut me some slack, would ya?"

Tim rolled his eyes at her plea for leniency. "No, Jo. I don't understand you, I'm trying, but I don't. What do you want, huh? Why're you even here?" That was the million-dollar question, a question she didn't even hold the answer to herself.

"This was a mistake. I should go," she announced before making a break for the door. Tim blocked her retreat, however. Grasping her firmly by the shoulders, he almost wanted to shake some sense into the woman in front of him. Not that that'd work anyway, but it might make him feel better. She was endlessly confusing and contrary, but dammit if that didn't somehow make her all the more appealing to him. Like a puzzle you were committed to solving no matter the difficulty. "Just talk to me," he implored quietly.

Jo visibly deflated at his words. She was tired, no, exhausted even, and her mind couldn't seem to catch up to her emotions no matter how hard it tried. "I can't. I want to, but I just can't," she admitted, dropping her head to press her forehead against his chest. Tim's arms slipped from her shoulders, to circle around her waist, pulling her into his warmth. They stood silently, holding one another for several minutes until he broke the stillness.

"So, what're we gonna do?" He whispered into her temple, his lips brushing softly against the skin. "I don't know," she conceded, her voice muffled against his shirt.


	15. Chapter 15

The next few months were relatively quiet. Well, as relatively quiet as life could be with Raylan Givens hanging around. Jo only found herself embroiled in his personal turmoil, and not his professional.

"Have you ever been in love, Jo?" Raylan asked one night as they shared beers on Winona's patio. The woman herself had long since vacated the premises, leaving only a note in her wake. Raylan wasn't handling the abandonment well, to say the least. "Can't say I have," she admitted, pressing the bottle to her lips.

He gave her a disbelieving look out of the corner of his eye. "Not even the high school boyfriend? What was his name? Something that started with a J." She chuckled through her sip of beer. "Jimmy? No, not even the high school boyfriend. I was just wasting time with him."

Raylan merely scoffed in doubt and questioned her further. "What about college? Were there no serious boyfriends then?" Jo took a long swig before responding. "You really wanna know about my romantic endeavors? Are you prepared to hear all the salacious details?" She teased in return. He simply waved a limp hand in surrender.

"Alright, so you've never been in love. I wonder why that is?" Jo's joking mood instantly turned sour at the insinuation. "You know exactly why, Raylan," she insisted through another sip.

Readjusting in his patio chair, Raylan sat taller as he admitted, "I suppose you're right. We weren't really built for lasting relationships." Jo's mind began to turn. Is that what she was doing, building a lasting relationship? She and Tim had been messing around for more than a year now, but she still clung desperately to the illusion that it was all casual. She didn't want anything more, wasn't comfortable with anything more. So, she merely hummed in response to Raylan's observation.

"You know," Raylan began, leaning closer to her as if he was going to divulge some deep dark secret into the quiet night. "I love Winona. So, why can't we make it work?" Jo mulled over his predicament. Why couldn't they get their shit together and commit to happy, healthy relationships? Their upbringing was undoubtedly to blame, but how long could they cling to that excuse? Eventually, there had to come a point when personal responsibility trumped childhood trauma, right? She bought time with another long pull from her bottle. It was empty now, so she tossed it into the yard, before grabbing another. "You weren't willing to change for her. Relationships can't work if you're not willing to make adjustments," she surmised.

Raylan hummed while contemplating the answer. "I suppose you're right."

They got drunk that night, as people often do when they've got no proper coping mechanisms to deal with their feelings. The alcohol numbed the pain, muzzled the doubting voices, until there was only peaceful silence left in its aftermath. Jo passed out on the living room couch, while Raylan stumbled upstairs and into the bed he'd shared with the mother of his future child.

Jo had seemingly forgotten much of her drunken evening with Raylan. Their late-night confessions were lost to an inebriated haze in the far corners of her mind. Until, a certain Marshal unwittingly triggered her memory of such realizations.

She'd been working on some legal paperwork at her kitchen table, flicking her way through the casefile carefully. All the while, jotting down notes here and there that might serve pertinent to the impending lawsuit. Tim was cleaning his rifle at the coffee table, or, at least, he had been. Jo was too focused on her reading to notice him wandering off after reassembling the weapon.

Two shot glasses and a bottle of scotch being placed on the surface in front of her had Jo abandoning her assignment. "What's this?" She asked while Tim eased himself into the seat across from her. He took the file from between her hands and closed it, before gently setting it aside and out of the way. "Twenty questions," he grunted and set about filling each glass to the brim.

"Great," Jo muttered sarcastically, drawing out the word in exaggeration. Tim only ever wanted to play this particular game when he had something he wanted to ask her but wasn't able to do so without a little social lubrication. He chose to start with an easy one, "are you excited about bein' an aunt?" Once he'd finished his drink, and refilled the shot glass, she admitted, "can't say I've thought much about it. What with Winona being out of the picture and all." She didn't bother expanding on her answer any further.

"What's your favorite color?" Tim scoffed at her easy question. In turn, she chuckled at his annoyed reaction from behind her glass, before draining its contents. "Hey, this is your game. I'm just humoring you," Jo announced with a shrug of the shoulders.

He rolled his eyes at the statement, and apparent lack of enthusiasm from the woman seated across from him, but answered nonetheless. "Blue," came his short reply. Jo considered him while refilling her drink, and commented, "like the color of your eyes." She'd never given eye pigment much consideration before Tim, but, sometimes, when he wore that one blue bomber jacket, his proved very hard to ignore.

"I'm actually more of a navy man," he shot back in jest. Jo hummed in mock contemplation. "I would have thought you'd go for Army green," she smirked at his obvious irritation. If she was gonna be instant upon not taking this seriously, then he was gonna have to make her take it seriously. Tim needed her full attention before reaching the question he ultimately wanted to ask, but they needed more alcohol in their systems before that particular bomb dropped.

"Have you and Raylan even, you know?" His head dipped in insinuation as he awaited her inevitably adverse reaction. Jo's nose scrunched in disgust, like she'd smelled something foul, and her mouth hung open in shock at the implication. "Ew. No. He's my brother. What's wrong with you?" She disputed, her tone horror-stricken. "Not biologically," Tim challenged with a mischievous glint in his eye. Now he had her full attention.

It was now Jo's turn to scoff at his absurd behavior. "You're right, and Raylan is handsome in that rugged sort of way. Maybe I'll give it a shot now that he's single." Tim's mischievous glint dulled considerably at her defiant response. His blue eyes turned to slits while he glared at her from across the table. Tossing his shot back, Tim felt the amber liquid burn his throat as it passed. However, no alcohol could burn harsher than the thought of Jo with another man.

If he really wanted to play it that way, then two could tango, Jo figured. "Who's your FBI friend?" Her eyes flashed dangerously while the query was spoken. Shit, she really did know about everything, Tim realized. "Now, Jo. It's not what you think," he warned carefully, but his lie visibly missed its landing, a fact made apparent by the sharp rising of her eyebrows in disbelief. "I bet it's exactly what I think," she argued with crossed arms. For a moment, he was scared of incurring her wrath, but then another thought occurred to him. A thought that caused all fear to immediately dissipate. "Why, you jealous?" Tim snickered as a wide grin overtook his features.

"You wish," she countered, but the conviction didn't quite reach her voice, and Tim's smile spread further. "You are. You're jealous," he laughed again, reclining back in his seat, seeming all too pleased with himself. Jo was decidedly not chuckling along with him. The knowledge that there was an ex-girlfriend somewhere out there, whom he still conversed with, infuriated her to no end. You don't have any right to be irate, though, Jo reasoned with herself. That's not what this sort of thing was about. Casual hookups were constructed to allow freedom in one's personal ventures. She finished her drink in one gulp, refusing to catch his eye. This whole vulnerability thing was for the birds, she concluded.

Jo promptly poured another shot and threw it back, not bothering to follow the action with a corresponding question. This game was stupid, and she should have known better than to engage in it. Past mistakes were always best left unrepeated.

"Are we datin'?" Tim asked suddenly while they sat in strained silence. He gave no indication that a question had been uttered at all. Neither chancing a glance in her direction nor pausing in his rhythmic swirling of the drink in his glass. In fact, she wouldn't have been sure he'd said anything at all had it not been so deathly quiet in the house.

Her previous words of wisdom to Raylan slammed back to the forefront of her mind. The phrase 'relationships can't work if you're not willing to make adjustments,' mocked Jo through her subconscious. This was the moment she needed to make a decision in. Would she behave like a grown adult who could handle the prospect of vulnerability, or would she run away like the scared child she used to be? She settled for somewhere in between. "No, we're knitting a quilt," she'd challenged, pinning him down with an austere glance. A moment passed where they held eye contact, but neither uttered a word. Both willing the other to understand things that neither were brave enough to say out loud.

Tim deftly nodded and guzzled his drink, and Jo swiftly mirrored his actions. Nothing more was spoken of the matter, though something in the atmosphere shifted between the two.

It's a thing to behold, the efforts of two people so severely emotionally crippled, trying to make something substantial without a roadmap to show them how.

"What do you want, Raylan?" Jo called as she approached his Marshal's desk. His mouth took on a roguish smirk as she approached him, and the observation made her weary. Nothing good could come of Raylan Givens looking so self-satisfied. Leaning back in the office chair, he twiddled a pen absentmindedly between his fingers while he appraised her. Yeah, nothing good could come of this at all.

"You'll never guess who I ran into just the other day," he drawled in barely contained glee. Jo crossed her arms, steeling herself for whatever surprise was sure to follow. Raylan retrieved a file from his desk and tossed the manila folder at her. Catching it with ease, she hesitantly opened and began viewing its contents. What lay inside had her eyes rolling. "Oh goddammit," she muttered under her breath while Raylan began chuckling.

"Recognize a familiar face?" He shamelessly mocked her obvious discomfort. Jo could see from her peripheral, Tim eavesdropping in on their conversation from the next desk over. She snapped the folder shut and threw it back at Raylan. "Shut up," she groaned, spinning on her heels with every intention of stalking away from him.

"No. Now wait a minute, Jo," Raylan said, rising from his seat. "I just thought you'd like to know what your old high school boyfriend has been up to." His tone may have held a false innocence, however, he was anything but innocent. Her eyes were slits as she glared at him. "You're a real shit starter, Raylan," she seethed from behind clenched teeth before stomping out of the Marshal's office.

Did she really care how Jimmy Tolan was wasting away his life in Harlan County? No, but Raylan's little spectacle had been in front of the wrong audience, and Jo would have to pay for that later.

Later came pretty quickly, precisely around the time Tim slid into the elevator just before the doors slammed shut. Somewhere between the first and second floors, he leaned over and pressed the red stop button. The elevator jolted to a halt while he turned towards her. Jo remained facing forward out of stubbornness.

"What's this I hear about an old boyfriend?" He asked as though he hadn't been seated four feet away while the whole ordeal played out. Jo tilted her head to evaluate him. "Why, Gutterson? You jealous?" His hands were on her hips in an instant, pressing until her back hit the elevator wall. The unexpected contact made her gasp, and her spine arched instinctively, bringing their chests together.

"I got any reason to be?" He challenged, pressing his weight into her for emphasis. The air in the elevator was suddenly stifling, but Jo tried to appear unaffected by their close proximity. "Yes," she answered antagonistically. "I was planning on running away with one of Boyd Crowder's crew. I'm so sorry you had to find out this way."

Tim's hands slowly crept beneath the bottom of her shirt, palming the soft skin underneath. "I guess we'll have to fix that, now won't we?" He whispered huskily in her ear. The elevator didn't move again for quite some time.


	16. Chapter 16

_I'm in some trouble. _Reading over Raylan's text message had Jo wondering if this particular Marshal was placed in her life by the good lord to instill in her a sense of patience and humility.

Her patience was undoubtedly starting to run thin, though. Why did everyone neglect to remember she had an actual job to do? She wasn't technically on Marshal retainer, obligated to drop all manner of things when they came calling. Regardless, Jo prepared to ride to his rescue, and see precisely what type of trouble Raylan had gotten himself into this time.

"I don't have a lot of time," Raylan announced, meeting her at the courthouse loading dock. Their chosen meeting place gave her pause. What was waiting for him in the Marshal's office that had driven them outdoors?

"What's going on?" Jo asked worriedly. Raylan let out an exasperated sigh before admitting, "I'm being framed for Gary's murder, and the FBI is investigating me for corruption." Shit, he'd really dug himself into a hole this time. "Lexington PD is waiting in the cafeteria, and Art is stalling the FBI and AUSA in the conference room."

"And we're out here, why?" Jo questioned, not following his intentions. Raylan pinched the bridge of his nose in agitation at her lack of psychic abilities. "Winona found the murder weapon, and I've got to go collect it. Think you can distract the detectives and lawyers while I'm gone?" There it was, the request for saving she'd been waiting for.

"You know, you're like a damsel in distress, Raylan. Why I always gotta be your white knight?" He ignored her observation altogether. "Thank you, Jo," he muttered with a sardonic smile before hurrying off towards his vehicle.

Jo figured she'd start with Lexington PD and the business with Gary Hawkins. Mostly because the cafeteria was closer, and partly because the Feebs were always a real bitch to deal with. Tim had the distinct privilege of babysitting the local detective, and their stiff body language made it clear that neither were particularly pleased with the circumstance. "Deputy Gutterson," Jo offered in formal greeting when she strode up to the pair. "Ms. Taylor. This here is Detective Garrity with LPD. He's looking into the shooting of Gary Hawkins." He gestured to the aforementioned officer while making introductions. Tim was smart, she had to grant him that. Even though he was reasonably sure Raylan had clued her in on the day's events, he was still subtly dropping her a line just in case.

"That's why I'm here," Jo informed the men standing before her. "I'm Deputy Givens' legal counsel, and I've got a few questions about Detective Garrity's investigation." The man in question's head drew back in surprise. "You're Givens' attorney?" He scoffed in disbelief.

"That's what I said," Jo confirmed shortly. "I'm sure by now, you've run ballistics on his firearm and found they weren't a match. So, I'm wondering if you've managed to locate the actual murder weapon, Detective?" She knew good and well LDP hadn't found the gun used to kill Gary Hawkins. Hopefully, Raylan had thrown it off some bridge by now.

"Not yet, ma'am," he said the title with an air of condescension, "but be rest assured that we'll keep looking." A smirk crept across Jo's features despite herself. Detective Garrity really thought he knew something, but he had no clue. "Great," she said while clapping her hands together. "Then it's about time I head upstairs. Deputy Gutterson, would you care to join me? I think you're done here." Jo didn't spare another glance at the bumbling detective as she and Tim exited the cafeteria.

Once the doors to the elevator closed behind them, Jo asked, "you know what's really going on here?" Tim chuckled lightly at her vague question. "Oh, about the planted gun Raylan's tracking down? Yeah, I know about all that." She nodded her head at his observation, honestly surprised that Raylan had revealed the truth to his fellow Marshal.

The elevator dinged, indicating they had arrived at their intended floor, but before the doors opened, Tim added one final comment. "It's kinda hot, watching you take charge."

"Honey, you ain't seen nothin' yet," Jo shot him a wink before stepping out the sliding doors. "And, by the way, I'm a real fan of that outfit," she called over her shoulder. Tim couldn't help the grin that graced his lips while following after her.

Jo's introduction to Special Agent in Charge Barkley went along the same lines Detective Garrity's had. However, the FBI agent didn't even attempt to hide his disdain at Jo's intrusion into his foolhardy investigation. "Agent Barkley here believes that Raylan's been working with and paid by Boyd Crowder," Art explained while they sat around the conference table. "That's none of her business," Barkley proceeded to scold the Chief Deputy for oversharing. Jo sat back in her chair and appraised the balding agent. "As Deputy Givens' attorney, it's precisely my business, Agent Barkley."

Vasquez tittered at her assertion, and mumbled under his breath, "she's his sister." Jo tried to murder the AUSA with her glare, but to no avail. "Regardless," she pressed forward. "If you intend to pursue a case, then you'll need to provide proof of money exchanging hands or favors being furnished. Now, I know AUSA Vasquez has a whole file full of unfortunate shootings. That fact isn't in dispute, but the burden falls on you, Agent Barkley, to link each and every one of them to corrupt intent." The men in the room fell deathly silent at her implied challenge. The air between the four was tense and still until Art broke the spell. "And, you still haven't told us what gave you the idea to look into Raylan and Boyd Crowder in the first place." Agent Barkley audibly gulped, but no confession escaped his lips. Looks like his little inquiry had lost all its steam.

Jo was reclined in Raylan's office chair, feet propped up on his desk, just fiddling with her phone. He still hadn't returned, and LPD and the FBI were getting quite disgruntled from having to wait. Tim was talking to an unfamiliar Marshal, and she'd been mostly ignoring his conversation until he announced, "I mean, she's older for a Victoria's Secret girl, but that's how you know she knows what she's doing." She scowled at him from the next desk over.

The double doors were suddenly thrown open, and a furious FBI agent stormed in. "Hey! Hey!" Barkley shouted, pointing an accusing finger as he stalked towards Tim's desk. "Hey!" The blonde Marshal returned with a look of false innocence, casually munching on an orange slice. "Where is he?" Barkley inquired with his arms thrown to the side in outrage. "Where's who?" Tim questioned, taking another bite.

"Don't play dumb with me, deputy," the FBI agent insisted, standing before the Marshal's desk in a barely contained rage. "I'm not playing. I'm an idiot. You can ask anybody," Tim assured around the fruit contained in his mouth. He even made a show of gesturing around the office, daring the Feeb to test his statement.

Art strolled out of his office to investigate the interruption. "Can I help you?" Barkley pivoted between the two, waving his blameful finger at each. "Yeah. Your deputy was supposed to take Givens downstairs, bring him right back up. I just checked with the detective. He never saw him."

"Well, I took him down," Tim guaranteed. Art's face took on an exaggerated frown as he considered the predicament. Leaning over, he claimed an orange slice from his deputy's desk before concluding, "well, it's a big building, you know. He'll turn up. Could be taking a shit." Jo had to bite her fist to contain the laughter bubbling from Art's statement and Barkley's look of vexation. This office was a thrill a minute.

Once the two older men had wandered off, Jo leaned over the glass divider to whisper at Tim. "I'm gonna let the Victoria's Secret crack slide because I know you helped Raylan out today. Plus, you're a self-proclaimed idiot," her words were teasing, but the gratitude behind them was genuine. "I helped Raylan for you," he pronounced as though it were apparent, pinning her down with his blue eyes. Letting out a heavy sigh, she admitted, "I know, and you could have gotten in serious trouble for it. So, what I'm saying is I appreciate it, that's all." Jo hated this sort of emotional vulnerability. It made her feel icky.

Almost as if he could read her mind, Tim ribbed, "now, was that so hard?" Jo rolled her eyes and headed towards the exit. "Tell Raylan he's welcome," she shouted before the doors closed behind her.


	17. Chapter 17

The harsh knocking on Jo's front door should have been her first warning. The sound carried with it the brute force of someone trying to beat through the wood, in an effort to gain entry into her home. She retrieved her pistol from the end table and approached wearily. All the while, the incessant pounding continued, never stalling in its strength nor rhythmic striking.

Raylan stood on the other side, looking none too pleased, which would have been her second warning, had she not grown accustomed to his perpetually perturbed nature. "Put that away," he barked, taking note of her weapon in hand, and forced his way into the home. His terse tone was her third warning, and this one she picked up on.

Returning the gun to its previous station, Jo turned towards him, arms crossed. Raylan's eyes fluttered across the living room and through the kitchen, searching for something. "What can I do for you, Raylan?" He chuckled at her question, but there was no humor behind it. His gaze ceased its exploring, in favor of pinning her down with a scrutinizing stare.

"I saw Ellstin Limehouse tonight. Now, I believe your paths have crossed a time or two. Given Mr. Limehouse's predilection for helping young girls in a spot of trouble." He stepped closer to Jo with each word spoken until only a breath remained between them. "So, I imagine you know what he deals in, and I'm not talkin' about swine or money." Her face was expressionless, but her heart was rapidly beating beneath her chest. She wouldn't have been surprised if he could hear it, standing as close as he was.

"Limehouse deals in secrets," Jo muttered underneath his watchful eyes. "That's right," Raylan announced, leaning towards her, their eyes level. "And, do you wanna guess what secret he divulged tonight?" His jaw was clenched as he glowered at her in challenge. To her credit, Jo didn't flint away, didn't bow her head in chagrin, she just stood stiffly in front of him. Giving no indications that she knew precisely what secret he was referencing.

Raylan huffed and took a step away from her. Looking off in the direction of Jo's bedroom, he announced, "either you get him out here, or I'll drag him out myself." There was no joshing in his voice, and the hands firmly planted on his hips conveyed just how serious his demand was.

Jo wavered for a moment, before turning her head and lightly calling Tim's name. The younger Marshal stepped out of the bedroom fully clothed. If he had appeared dressed in anything but Raylan was certain he would have lost all sense of composure at the mere sight.

"Smart," Raylan scoffed, his eyes bouncing back and forth between the two. "Parking your car around the block. I would have missed it had I not known what I was lookin' for."

Jo's mind raced, grasping for any explanation that would halt Raylan's growing fury in its tracks. Limehouse was an opportunist criminal, but he wasn't an insipid liar, so there was no way she could convince Raylan his words bore no truth. Plus, Tim's presence in her home late at night was all too telling. No, this was the inevitable storm she and Tim had coming their way. They'd just have to bear down and hope they'd make it out the other side alive.

Tim had finally come to stand next to Jo in the living room, placing a reassuring hand on her lower back. Observing the gentle contact had Raylan scowling at the pair. "How long?" He pressed behind clenched teeth. "How long have you two been sneakin' around behind my back?" Jo audibly tsked at his words. Leave it to Raylan to assume the whole world revolved around him.

"Long before you ever came back to Kentucky," Jo countered, matching his hostility. Raylan floundered for a moment, his mouth opening and closing repeatedly, like a fish suffocating outside the water. Suddenly, a light switch flicked on in his mind. The truth was finally illuminated with dazzling clarity. She watched the realization strike him. Saw Raylan's lips fall into a firm line, but was too slow in reacting.

Raylan's fist shot out so quickly that neither he nor Tim had time to react before it came colliding with the junior deputy's left cheek. For a moment, Raylan marveled at his clenched right hand in such surprise that you would have thought it had acted of its own volition. However, once the momentary shock wore off, a hardness set into his eyes. Behind them, a fire that could set ablaze even a frozen tundra with just one look.

Tim took a half step back upon being struck but otherwise held his ground stoutly. If this was the indemnity due for his sins, then he was going to take what was coming to him like a man.

Jo swiftly inserted herself between the two Marshals, pushing back on each of their chests, trying to create some distance. Raylan got one hit in, which was fair, all things considered, but he wasn't going to get a second. "Stop it, Raylan," Jo hollered while trying to contain him. Tim wasn't struggling against her pressuring hands, but her brother still was.

"You've been fucking around with my sister for more than a year?" He seethed. This was a betrayal of the highest order. A man didn't mess around with another man's family, that much was gospel, and Raylan didn't take the inherent disloyalty lightly. "It's not like that," Tim tried to assure, but Raylan simply lunged at him again. Only Jo's firm hold halted his progress. Stopped him from beating the shit out of his coworker in her living room.

"That's enough!" Jo shouted, shoving Raylan back with all her might. "If you wanna talk about this, then we'll do it like adults!" He started chuckling beneath his breath, his eyes firmly set on Tim. "I've known Jolene her entire life. She loves nothing and no one. You're a fool, Gutterson," Raylan surmised with a taunting smirk.

Jo was tired of it, Raylan's indignant attitude, and his holier than thou conviction. "Tim, I'm gonna need you to step outside," she implored, her eyes never straying from Raylan's imposing figure. "No, I don't think I should," Tim answered carefully. He was willing to take Raylan's aggression on the cheek, literally, but leaving the raging Marshal alone with Jo wasn't ideal. She gave him a soft smile over her shoulder and guaranteed, "it'll be alright. Just take a break out back." Despite his better judgment, Tim found his feet leading him out the screen door, and into her backyard.

When they were finally alone, Jo set a glower upon Raylan and demanded, "what's your fucking problem?" He looked beyond bewildered at her question. "What's my problem? You can't be serious? I just find out you've both been lyin' to me for months, and you ask what's my fucking problem?" She was deadly serious, however. Jo had sat by while Raylan ran amuck with witnesses, with his ex-wife, with random bartenders, and now he had the audacity to pass judgment on her life choices. She'd had enough of it.

Steeling herself, Jo responded, passively, "the existence of a lie is predicated upon a preceding question. You never asked, so we never had any cause to lie." Raylan swelled up in anger at her sanctimonious answer. "Don't play lawyer with me, Jolene!" He shouted, waving a disapproving finger in her face. He was rapidly falling off the rails, and though Jo was confident Raylan would never hit her like he'd done Tim, there was no limit to what he might actually do when so incensed.

"No. You don't get to charge in here, guns blazing, and tell me what's what. This isn't one of your crime scenes, Raylan Givens. Now, you wanna be an asshole to me, that's fine. I set all this in motion, but the buck stops there." Her words took a second to resonate with him, and once the insinuation behind her subtle command settled in his mind, a sarcastic chortle bubbled from his chest.

"My god. You like him." Raylan realized she was fine taking the brunt of his anger if it got him off his fellow Marshal's back for the time being. Now, seeing the situation for what it indeed was, they could finally get to the crux of the matter.

Jo dismissed his observation entirely while watching him from behind narrowed eyes. "What're you gonna do, Raylan, huh? You gonna forbid us from seeing each other? You're not my father. Hell, you're not really even my brother. So, how do you think this is gonna play out?" The assertion stung them both, her to say it and him to hear it. They weren't family, not biologically anyway, but they'd always felt closer to each other than any of their blood relatives had.

Raylan's eyes were dangerous as he towered over her, his grin anything but playful. "No, Jo. I'm not gonna do that. I'm just gonna wait. You'll manage to screw this up all on your own. Let's not forget, I know you better than anyone. You'll bail long before you ever have to tell him the truth. It's just who you are." Spinning on his heels, he stalked out the front door, slamming it in his wake. The house shook from the force, then lay grimly quiet.

The squeaking of a screen door told her Tim had reentered from the backyard, but her eyes remained focused on the spot Raylan had previously occupied. He did know her better than anyone else. She couldn't deny that, so maybe he saw her intentions clearer than she could see them herself. The notion sat heavy in her mind, drawing out all the doubting voices she had worked to suppress.

Tim lightly calling her name, shook Jo out of her reverie. She finally got a good look at him since before Raylan had made his grand entrance. The deputy's cheek was already swelling and slightly discolored from the punch he received. No one had ever taken a hit for her, and the realization made her heart clench.

"Come on," she said, grabbing ahold of Tim's hand. "Let's get some ice on that cheek. We wouldn't want it ruining your good looks." He resisted her attempts to drag him into the kitchen, though. Pulling her back towards him, Tim examined every inch of Jo's face with a concerned look held upon his own. "Look, you can be mad at Raylan all you want, but you can't shut me out," he beseeched her in earnest. That wasn't a promise she could keep, however. No matter how much they willed it otherwise.

"I'm assuming you heard all that," Jo asked even though she already knew the answer. Of course, he'd been eavesdropping at the back door. She would have done the same if their roles were reversed. Tim nodded deftly in concurrence, which caused her to expel a hefty sigh. Shaking loose of his hold, she simply announced, "I'll get the ice." Before wandering into the kitchen and away from his questioning eyes.


	18. Chapter 18

Jo's presence was requested in Art Mullen's office the next day. The whole situation was strangely reminiscent of being called to the principal's office in school. She had no doubt of what the Chief Deputy wished to speak with her about. By now, Tim's impressive shiner and Raylan's surlier than usual attitude had to have drawn some unwanted attention.

"Hey, Art," Jo greeted wearily from the doorway. It felt like she was fixing to be lectured by a concerned father, not that her real father had ever bothered with such a thing. Deep in her gut, Jo worried the older man was going to tell her he wasn't mad at her, just disappointed in her.

"Close that door, would you?" Art requested from behind his desk. Jo shut it slowly, biding her time before settling in the seat across from him uncomfortably. The Chief's hands came up to rub his balding head in contemplation as he appraised her through a frown. Jo fidgeted nervously under his watchful eyes.

"You know, I like you, Jo, but I can't have you stirring up trouble in my Marshal's office." His assessment was fair and had her head bowing in guilt. "I wasn't intentionally trying to cause problems," she muttered quietly. It was true. Jo would have preferred if her situation with Tim had never come to light, but it was too late to put that particular genie back in its bottle. Now, she'd have to traverse awkward conversations such as this one while trying to figure out what this new development actually meant for their burgeoning relationship.

Art released a heavy sigh and crossed his arms over the top of the big wooden desk, acting as a barrier between them. His stare never ceased in its analytical nature. "I know you weren't, but if it comes down to it, I'm gonna have to let Raylan go. I prefer you and Gutterson to him, anyway," he admitted. Finally, he dropped the severe act, and the pair shared a chuckle at Raylan's expense. Jo visibly relaxed in her seat, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.

"Come on, Chief. You and I both know there's no one else willing to take Raylan," she teased back. Art's eyes traveled over her head, through the glass wall, and towards the Marshal in question. "You're probably right. Guess we're both stuck with him," he agreed, albeit begrudgingly. A silence fell over the office while they each pondered their predicament. Jo wondered if she was supposed to assure him that her association with Tim wouldn't interfere with Marshal business, regardless of the outcome. Art considered if this was the appropriate time to bestow some fatherly advice to the younger woman. Both options were uncomfortable at best, so they remained at a muted standstill.

Art broke the reverie first, standing from his desk to approach the door. Easing it open, he called for Raylan to join them with a gesturing finger. While Raylan made his way into the office, Art busied himself with the act of pouring three shots of bourbon. If he'd learned anything from his time with the Givens boy, it was that alcohol seemed to ease painful conversations. He had to assume the same applied in Jo's case.

Raylan and Jo hadn't spoken to one another since the former had stormed out of her home the night before. Thus, she wasn't surprised when he chose to linger by the door rather than claiming the seat next to hers. In fact, he didn't look too pleased with the prospect of sharing a room with her at all, if his stiff posture was anything to go by.

When Art dolled out the glasses, Raylan threw his back hastily, wincing as the amber liquid burned his throat. "What do you need, Art?" Raylan asked a measure too aggressively for someone speaking to their boss. The Chief Deputy scoffed at the insolent tone, while Jo simply rolled her eyes at his ever childish behavior. "I need you two to talk like the grown adults you are," Art said poignantly, before finishing his drink. "I'm gonna leave now, and I expect this issue to be resolved by the time I get back." He grabbed some files off his desk and exited the room without another word. Leaving Jo and Raylan alone for the first time since their blowup.

Neither said anything for a good while. Instead, they sulked in their anger, eyes trained at everything in the room aside from each other. Jo was the first to fold under the pressure of the stilted silence. "I didn't rob a bank or set fire to an orphanage, so why don't you drop the attitude, Raylan." It probably wasn't the best conversation starter, in retrospect, but he'd taken the whole protective sibling act a step too far the night before.

Raylan didn't immediately explode at her assertion, which was surprising. He simply just rubbed his eyes in exhaustion. "You're grown, Jo, you're welcome to do whatever you like," he stated. That seemed too easy though, and so she watched him hesitantly from her seat, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "But do you have to do it with my partner?" There it was. If Jo were messing around with some random civilian, they wouldn't be having this conversation, but since her proclivities hit closer to home, suddenly, it was an issue.

"It's not like I knew he was going to be your partner," Jo defended her actions. She hadn't been banking on Raylan returning to Kentucky, well, ever, and she honestly hadn't planned on keeping Tim around that long either. Neither of those realities seemed to matter much now, though. Raylan chuckled humorlessly, before grabbing her untouched drink from the desk, and guzzling it quickly. "Yet, you chose not to tell me," he accused with a pointed finger.

Jo only offered a noncommittal shrug at his allegation. "Was there an appropriate time for me to say: 'Hey, Raylan. Sometimes Tim and I hook up. Just thought you'd like to know.'" Raylan noticeably winced at the observation. Apparently, envisioning the private activities of his adoptive sister and coworker wasn't ideal for him. "I'm so sorry I missed the opportunity," Jo mocked.

It wasn't like either of them could change what had already been done. They just needed to move past these unfortunate circumstances and on with their lives. "It's really not that serious. We don't need to treat it like it is." Jo offered them both the easy out, silently begging Raylan to take it. Of course, he didn't. "Does he know that?" Jo was confused on who exactly he was referring to, her face scrunching in uncertainty. "What?"

"Tim, does he know it's not that serious?" Raylan clarified, watching the man in question through the glass wall. Jo turned in her seat to appraise the other Marshal as well. Tim sat at his desk, idly typing away at his computer. He appeared busy, but every so often his eyes would shift to his periphery and explore the closed office. Obviously interested in what Raylan, Jo, and previously Art could be discussing a mere fifteen feet away.

Jo suddenly wished she'd finished her bourbon before Raylan could get his grubby hands on it. "If he's smart, he'll know," she grumbled, turning away from watching the topic of their conversation. Raylan smiled sardonically at her declaration and shook his head. "Yeah, but women can make a man dumb. Just, try to keep it so I don't have to shoot him, alright? It's more paperwork each time," he concluded. Well, it wasn't exactly a go-ahead or even an apology for his earlier behavior, but it was a subtle olive branch they were both willing to accept.

"If it comes down to it, I'll kill him myself," Jo promised, chuckling as Art reentered the office. Seeing the two speaking, and more visibly relaxed, the Chief Deputy smirked to himself proudly, and announced that it was time for them to get out of his office. They didn't have to be told twice, and Jo hightailed it out of there behind Raylan.

She knew Tim would be trailing after her towards the elevator without even needing to chance a glance over her shoulder. The anticipation of knowing what went down in Art's office must have been killing him. So, just to be difficult, Jo hooked a right and took the stairs instead. "Goddammit," she heard him groan under his breath some paces behind, and it made her snicker. Weaving her way through numerous office workers, judges, law enforcement, and lawyers, Jo managed to evade Tim in the crowd until she reached the parking lot, where he finally caught up with her. "Was that really necessary?" He asked in indignation as they stood next to her vehicle.

Twiddling with her keys in hand, Jo merely grinned at him mischievously and offered, "I quite enjoyed the thought of you chasing after me." Her confession only earned her a glare and an agitated growl in return. "What did Art want?" Tim asked, bypassing her sarcastic comment, and proceeding to the subject he actually wanted to discuss.

"To talk about you," Jo answered shortly, offering no elaboration. "And Raylan?" He pressed further. "Also, you," she replied just as briefly. Each time she sidestepped his inquiry, that wrinkle between his brows grew deeper and deeper. Jo thought it was funny to rile him up intentionally. Just to see how long till Tim could tolerate it no further.

"You know, I once watched a target for three days in a shitty little village outside Kandahar. Yet, you somehow require more patience," he commented in agitation. Tim's confession made Jo feel the tiniest bit guilty; she'd managed to be more annoying than his duties as a sniper.

"Fine," she eventually caved. "Art was ensuring you and Raylan weren't gonna kill each other defending my honor. Raylan just wanted to know if he'd have to shoot you now or in the near future. I sorted them both out, so you're in the clear, Gutterson."

Her reassurance elicited a relieved sigh from the Marshal in front of her. "Well, there's that," he acknowledged, "but where does that leave us?" There was that million-dollar question again. Jo had had plenty of time to consider the options but still hadn't settled on a definitive answer. Tim was perfectly decent, never asking too much nor trying too hard. Her issues with intimacy, with commitment, were entirely her own, and she'd avoided dealing with them this long. What could a little longer hurt?

"I don't know. It's lost some of the risqué appeal, no longer being a secret and all," she mused half-jokingly. Tim pinned her down with a hard stare, not entirely sure if she were jesting or trying in earnest to brush him off. "Great," he huffed, ready to leave Jo and her insufferable trenchancy behind in the parking lot.

Seeing Tim visibly disengage from the conversation, from her, just made Jo feel ashamed of her inability to emote like a well adjusted human being. Everything between them either had to revert to thinly veiled sarcasm or passive apathy. She didn't have many other settings to shift between because anything else was either too vulnerable and too discomfiting.

She figured now was the time to give him something substantial, lest this particular fish jump off the line completely. Catching his wrist, Jo gently tugged Tim towards her, till their chests brushed against one another. She floundered for a moment in her next move, but carefully raised on the tips of her toes to brush a soft kiss upon his lips. She'd only meant it to be a light peck. After all, they were still in the parking lot outside their place of business, but Tim obviously had other ideas in mind.

Weaving his hand into the hair at the back of her neck, he pulled her in again for a harsher kiss. One that left her weak in the knees, and had Jo clutching to his jacket for some semblance of support. When Tim finally drew back, the dazed look in her eyes had him smirking smugly. Jo registered his self satisfied grin through her hazy mind and pushed him away from her defiantly. "PDA, really? Gross," she grumbled, making a show of wiping her mouth on the back of her sleeve.

Tim chuckled, despite her act of disgust. "And you said it couldn't be risqué without it being a secret," he announced proudly, before heading back inside. Jo watched him go, a slight smile creeping onto her now swollen lips.


	19. Chapter 19

"Now, what sorta trouble you been stirring up, Raylan?" Jo asked, leaning in the doorway of the Marshal's locker room. She might as well apply for the Marshal's Service at this rate, given the frequency with which she'd grown accustomed to visiting this particular office.

The three male Marshals were all there, listening while Tim rattled off an exceptionally long rap sheet in a bored tone. Art and Raylan set about packing numerous rifles and bulletproof vests into a duffel bag. It looked as though they were preparing for some great hillbilly war.

Halting in his motions, Raylan pinned his fellow deputy with an accusatory look. "You told her?" He griped in obvious agitation.

Tim simply scoffed indignantly and shrugged his shoulders, file in hand. He hadn't spoken to Jo at all the past few days, but this seemed to be an emerging trend. He was going to be blamed for all the shit she just happened to know.

"Hey, now," Jo called, coming to the junior deputies defense and drawing attention back to her person. "Constable Bob called me about the break-in, and the warden gave me a ring after Arlo shanked an inmate. Y'all would be horrified to know the number of people who got me on speed dial." She smiled proudly at her own assertion. Only Ellstin Limehouse rivaled Jo in the innate ability to acquire loyal snitches to the cause. Though, her cause was keeping tabs on her troublesome brother, while Limehouses held the intent of keeping intruders out of Noble's Hollow.

Raylan chose to ignore her untimely intrusion altogether and returned to the matter at hand. "Are you sure you want to go with us, Art?" He asked doubtfully.

"He's got a point, boss. I mean, hell, their dogs in the pound," Tim added in support of his inquiry.

"You know the best barbecue I ever had was in Versailles," Art mused, handing another shotgun to Raylan. "That's where Waldo is. I don't wanna miss out on that brisket."

"Why don't you tell us why you're going?" Raylan hummed in consideration. "Of all the fugitives that have come across our desk of late, why you gotta go on this one?" Clearly, the looming threat of retirement had stirred a sense of adventure in the Chief Deputy, but Jo wasn't supposed to know anything about that.

"Because for 30 years, this office dropped the ball on apprehending a federal fugitive that was collecting a draw check," Art announced, slamming and securing the weapons locker. "And I, personally, wanna be the one to cross that off the books."

Raylan and Jo shared a skeptical look from across the room. No way were his motivations as simple as righting this particular occupational wrong.

"And also that mystery-bag thing's giving me a little bit of a Marshal stiffy," Art added mockingly.

"That's a nice image," Tim drawled sarcastically.

"Lovely, Art," Jo said through a grimace. Imagining Raylan's boss with any kind of stiffy, metaphorical or otherwise, was less than ideal.

"We are gonna stop for lunch before we get to the Truths' in case you shoot one of them," he instructed Raylan while passing the heavy duffel bag to Tim, who quickly shouldered it. "Then we won't get to go after. Jo, you want us to bring you back some?" Art asked politely.

"Oh, you know, I can always go for a side of sausage," she grinned mischievously, while suggestively elbowing Tim in the ribs. He quickly pushed her off him. There was that Boy Scout shyness she loved to taunt.

Tim and Raylan exchanged an unamused glance, partially at Art's declaration of stimulation, and partly at Jo's inappropriate insinuation, before exiting the locker room. Jo trailed behind them with a self-satisfied smirk. "Try not to get pissed on by any teenagers while you're out hunting fugitives," she teased from the rear.

While the male Marshals headed for the elevator, Jo lingered in front of Rachel Brooks' desk, waiting patiently for the deputy to finish her phone call.

Once the headset was returned to its receiver, Rachel shifted her eyes up and appraised her visitor wearily. "How can I help you, Jo?"

The pair were always cordial, but their busy schedules hadn't allotted much time to form a steadfast friendship. Jo had been hoping to change that. She really needed to converse with someone aside from Raylan and Tim; they could be real downers.

"What's the saying, when the cats away the mice will play? I was thinking you and I could get a drink once the day dies down," Jo offered with enough levity to imply she wouldn't be insulted should her request be denied.

Brooks mulled it over for a moment, before nodding her head in agreement. "How does five o'clock sound?"

Jo chuckled. "Sounds perfect. I love a good early evening buzz," she commented before taking leave of the Marshal's office.

Jo wasn't lying. She did enjoy a stiff drink after a long day. It was one of the tendencies she, Tim, and Raylan shared, an arguably problematic affinity for hard liquor. The trio was probably too cliche in their trauma, but Jo tried not to dwell on the implications.

Jo arrived at the bar before Rachel and ordered a bourbon. It was no Pappy Van Winkle, but it'd do in a pinch. She swirled the glass in rumination while awaiting the female deputy's arrival. Jo had, admittedly, been avoiding Tim for the last few days. Due in no small part to the item currently burning a hole in her blazer pocket. Maybe some liquid courage would finally give her the push needed to actually present the object to her blonde headed Marshal.

Jo's reverie was thankfully interrupted by Rachel occupying the barstool aside hers. She waited patiently while her companion placed her own drink order.

"So, Brooks, I hear you left your husband," Jo commented casually after watching Rachel take a long pull from her glass.

The woman in question absentmindedly fiddled with her earrings before asking, "who told you? Raylan? Tim?"

"Actually, it was Art," Jo admitted after sipping from her own tumbler. "He's worried. Thought you might need someone to talk to." The open-ended offer for a willing audience was there, Rachel would just have to decide whether or not to take it.

Rachel scoffed at the notion of her boss's concern. "I'm fine," she assured, studying the amber liquid in her glass. "It's just-" She searched for the words to properly convey exactly what had gone wrong in her marriage.

"He doesn't understand?" Jo provided. She'd been through this scenario enough times with Raylan and Winona to know that there was an inherent divide between law enforcement and their civilian partners. Outsiders couldn't comprehend the thrill of the chase, nor the drive that kept them enraptured despite the imminent danger. It's just the way things were.

Rachel released a heavy sigh and drained her drink before motioning to the bartender for another. "Exactly," she concluded, simply.

"Are you having second thoughts?" Jo asked gently. She'd never been in this particular situation, but divorces were notoriously hard, regardless of how inevitable they appeared.

Rachel inclined her head to the contrary. "No. Not really."

Jo picked up her glass after it had been refilled, sipping it graciously. "Good. I've always considered relationships finished the moment the thought lingers. No sense in backtracking once the impulse has come to stay." It was true; Jo had a nasty habit of bailing on lovers the instant the going stopped getting good. Better not to waste anyone's time, she felt.

When the conversation lulled, Rachel took the opportunity to relieve her love life from being the chosen topic of discussion. "How pissed was Raylan when he found out about Tim?

The question drew a hearty laugh from Jo. "He stomped in, made a big ol' scene," she confessed, taking another swig from her tumbler. "Has he been right at work? I'd hate to have to kick his ass for acting foolish."

Rachel only smiled warmly and shook her head. "He's been the same," she assured evenly.

Jo snorted at the short answer she received. "Shady, lazy, and ever difficult, then? Well, I suppose that's to be expected." Raylan was nothing if not consistent in his improper behavior.

The drinks and conversation flowed freely after that. The two reminisced about college, Rachel at Ole Miss, and Jo attending WVU. Neither had intended to call Kentucky home for long, but here they were. Victims to strange circumstances, indeed.

Rachel spoke about her nephew, Nick, who was doing well, despite his father having been thrown back in prison for the part he played in the birthday chase. Jo's theory had proven correct thus far, just because one's parents were screw-ups, didn't mean their children were resigned to the same fate.

"Are you ready to be Chief when Art retires?" Jo questioned abruptly, her voice holding a barely perceivable slur to match her slightly glassy eyes. She'd set out to get a nice buzz going, and she'd arrived at her destination in a timely fashion, which also meant her tongue was looser than usual.

Rachel looked taken aback by the unexpected question. "You think I'll be the next Chief Deputy?" She asked uncertainly.

Jo scoffed loudly at her noticeable doubt. "Obviously. Who else would it be? Not Raylan, he's a perpetual mess who can barely manage himself. Dunlop is a right idiot, and Tim's too sarcastic to be taken seriously," she commented while finishing off her bourbon.

A familiar male voice droning from just over her shoulder had Jo swiveling around on her barstool in surprise. "Tell us how you really feel, Jo." The man accompanying the statement approached the bar with his hands carefully tucked into the waistband at the back of his slacks.

Jo hadn't told Tim where she was going to be, yet here he stood. For a moment, she entertained the idea that he'd tracked her phone to determine her whereabouts, then she remembered Rachel's earlier trip to the bathroom. Shifting her eyes, Jo pinned the female Marshal with a reproachful stare. "You called and tattled on me," she said more as a statement than a question.

"You've had a lot to drink tonight. I figured you'd need a ride," Rachel commented impishly. She and Tim shared a silent nod before the former settled her tab and wished them both a goodnight.

"Well, come on, Marshal. Apparently, my chariot awaits," Jo said snidely, throwing several bills down on the counter. She stumbled off the stool, her feet uncooperative when hitting even ground for the first time in hours. Tim quickly caught her arm to steady her, and Jo would have been embarrassed had that part of her brain not been dulled by all the alcohol she'd consumed. She let him usher her out of the bar, through the parking lot, and into his SUV without any fuss.

Tim had been unexpectedly silent through the whole ordeal, and Jo found it disconcerting in her inebriated state. "Tell me about your day," she requested, in an effort to fill the stilted silence.

Jo's eyes closed, and she let the wind from the open window waft over her flushed face while Tim told her about their visit to the Truth's. Turns out, Waldo Truth had gone splat in the streets of Corbin, and Drew Thompson had faked his own death to escape into the wind. "Sounds like some real D.B. Cooper shit," Jo pondered aloud.

They'd pulled into her driveway not long after, and the pair sat quietly in the still-running car. Jo let her head loll on the headrest to appraise Tim. "You coming in or what?" Her voice held an air of challenge, but the only answer she received was a deft nod and the motor being cut off.

Their awkward silence extended into the house, where Jo grew agitated by Tim's wordlessness. Whatever he was pissed at her about or preoccupied with, she wished he'd just come out and say it. A confrontation would be preferable to him just standing there like a mute statue in her living room.

She fiddled with something in her blazer pocket, feeling the cold metal under her fingertips, running them along the jagged and uneven edges. "I was thinking this would make things weird, but you're already being weird, so here you go." Jo extracted the item and tossed it at him nimbly.

Tim didn't flinch when he caught it expertly, his brow scrunching in confusion as he inspected the object in his hand. "What's this?"

Jo couldn't help but roll her eyes at his query. She would have thought it was apparent, but Tim always seemed to insist she use her words, rather than rely on his inferencing skills. "It's a key. It's your key. How can you hunt fugitives all day but not figure that one out?" Jo taunted with crossed arms, aiming to ease the tension.

Tim seemed to consider her words for a moment longer before swiftly pocketing his new key. Rushing forward, he swept Jo up into his arms. She expelled an ungraceful yelp at the abrupt action, clutching to his shoulders when her feet were unexpectedly lifted from the ground. Her momentary shock gave way to jovial giggles as she was carried into the bedroom.


	20. Chapter 20

Every one of Jo's nerve endings was alight with electricity, tingling as sparks erupted with each soft touch and hard kiss. Her flushed skin buzzed with contentment when she rolled to lay beside Tim against the now crumpled bedsheets. Their heavy breathing echoed through the still room while they gradually descended from their respective highs.

Jo pushed the dampened hair from her forehead. Running nimble fingers through the waves now extremely tangled after being tugged at and carded through by the man beside her. Tim's hands were resting beneath his head, elbows bent out to the sides. With eyes closed, he looked the picture of tranquility. She took in the absence of stiff shoulders and furrowed brow as her eyes ranked over his profile. He probably wasn't what you'd call conventionally attractive, but his full lips lent themselves to an inherent pout, and the straight bridge of his nose offered a sharpness to his features.

"You just gonna stare at me all night?" Her eyes briefly widened in surprise of being caught ogling. Still, it was to be expected, his professional career hinged on the ability to be in constant awareness of his surroundings. Plus, she wasn't exactly subtle in her gazing. He could feel her eyes burning a hole into the side of his head while she drank in his more appealing attributes.

Jo turned on her side, head resting in her open palm as she appraised him shamelessly. "I wouldn't say it's the worst view," she teased. Tim's eyes remained closed, and his body lay still, but a grin tugged at the corner of his lips from her statement.

"Is that why you gave me a key because you enjoy the scenery?" Jo's eyes rolled at his faint request for validation. It was her own fault for being too vague with her intentions and too guarded with her emotions.

"Maybe I just like the idea of having dick delivered straight to my door. More expedient if I don't have to get up and let you in each time," she drawled sarcastically. Her blatant mocking earned a scoff from her bed partner, who extracted an arm from beneath his head to pull her into his side roughly.

Jo went willingly, her head coming to rest upon his chest, their legs tangling as she idly traced the tattoo gracing his shoulder. "I think you like me," Tim announced confidently, his fingers softly running up and down her spine. The gentle touch left goosebumps in its wake, and the shiver that ran through her body had nothing to do with the crisp night air hitting her bare skin.

"I think you're fishing," Jo challenged in return. She considered the pattern her fingers absentmindedly followed. Like the rifle that adorned his wrist, she imagined its origin stemmed from his time in the Rangers, but she'd never bothered to inquire about it.

Tim let out a heavy sigh beneath her, his chest rising and falling with the deep breath. "Can you blame me? I wouldn't call you forthright." The assessment was fair, even though her often callous treatment of his obvious affections wasn't.

Jo knew Tim frequently found her frustrating. Hell, she was regularly vexed by her own deadened nature, but it seemed an exceptionally arduous habit to break. Years of apathy weren't reprogrammed in a fortnight, or, in their case, a year or so's time. However, she could feel herself relinquishing the tight hold she held on the reigns little by little, solely for the blonde currently resting underneath her. The notion held both the terror of her worst nightmare and the exhilaration of a new adventure. She still wasn't certain which aspect would win out in the end.

Jo huffed in exasperation and lifted herself from her horizontal position. Throwing one leg over his body, she straddled Tim's hips and peered down upon his face with a set determination. His hands ran up her bended knees to rest on the soft expanse of her thighs. The sensation was almost distracting enough to lose her train of thought, but she held firm to her faculties. "Christ, you really have to hear it, don't you?" She griped while situated over him. The only light illuminating their features came from the full moon shining through the open blinds—bathing them both in a dim glow.

Tim's mouth twitched with a small smirk, but the only answer he offered was a slight incline of the head. His fingers gripping the smooth skin of her thighs a silent indicator for her to continue. Jo licked her lips in anticipation, her tongue coming to rest between her teeth, where she bit down on it harshly. Her body was instinctively trying to contain the sentiment threatening to spill from her mouth. Physically saying the words that might offer him some sense of assurance wasn't the difficult part, willingly opening herself to vulnerability was, however. Some cans of worms, once opened, were damn near impossible to close.

She'd stalled too long in her contemplation, and she could feel Tim's eyes bearing down on her as if attempting to read her mind. Even if he could, all he'd discover were a jumble of incoherent thoughts and a swirl of conflicting emotions. Nothing tangible or constructive to be found there, so she'd have to forcibly manufacture the words to convey how she really felt.

Jo drew in a substantial inhale through her nose, and slowly released the exhale from her mouth. Maybe if she calmed her breathing, her heart would stop erratically beating behind her rib cage. She wasn't preparing to run a marathon, so maybe her body could stop behaving like it was anticipating the exertion of one. "Yes, Tim Gutterson. I like you. Despite your habitual need for verbal confirmation," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tim surged forward, pulling himself into a seated position. His arms encircling Jo's waist to ensure she didn't tip backward at the sudden change in position. Her eyes expanded in shock for the second time that evening. When they readjusted, an uncertain look rested behind her pupils. Their faces were so close that she could feel the air from his steady breaths dancing across her reddened cheeks.

Tim rarely smiled, Jo realized. He often offered a self-satisfied smirk or Cheshire grin after dolling out one of his smartass comments, but rarely an authentic smile. Now, she had an intimate view of his white teeth, imperfectly crooked but charming, as his lips pulled back to display a sincere smile. "Hey, that didn't kill you," he ribbed mildly, treading carefully in his joshing, given their precarious predicament.

Jo let out an exaggerated groan, her head falling forward to rest upon Tim's shoulder. His arms tightened around her waist, pulling their bodies even closer. "I think I just died a little inside," Jo whined, half-joking and half-serious. They'd broken through the proverbial barrier, only to find themselves immersed in deep, deep waters on the other side. Regardless, they shared a chuckle at her confession, and the tension surrounding them like a blanket broke.

Before Tim could press her revelatory inclinations any further, Jo's head turned into him, and she began placing open-mouthed kisses along the expanse of his throat, and all other prospects immediately dissipated. Her teeth lightly scraping against the sensitive skin threw his senses into overdrive, and, suddenly, talking was the last thing on his mind.

Flipping them over, her back landed on the mattress with a soft thud while Tim hovered over her, arms braced on either side of Jo's head to relieve some of his weight from crashing down on her. She wasn't interested in creating distance between them, though. Jo none too gently pulled him down on top of her with forceful hands clutching his back. She relished the feel of his body pressed flush against her own, skin sliding against skin. The heat being shared brought all blood to the surface, magnified each caress as their flesh tingled from the contact.

All complications aside, this was a pleasure she hoped never to grow tired of. "You wanna keep talking, Ranger, or are you ready for round two?" Jo questioned with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. Her leg being hiked up over Tim's hip was all the indication she needed to know their conversation had concluded for the night.

_I received some very generous feedback on the last chapter, so here you go. All the nauseating fluff I could muster, for your viewing pleasure._


	21. Chapter 21

Events took a real turn towards the melodramatic in the days following Jo and Rachel's bar night. First, there was the psychic former widow of Drew Thompson, Eve Munro. Jo figured she must have said something mystical to Tim during the course of their investigation because he'd been acting slightly left of center ever since the chance encounter. She inquired once out of a sense of obligation, but after being immediately rebuffed, Jo dropped the subject entirely. She figured he'd share in his own time. There was no point in trying to force his hand, lest she be returned in kind at a later junction.

Then, Raylan's casual hookup, Lindsey, stole away with his secret hoard of cash and her ex-husband in tow. Rachel had clued her in on the salacious details, having been party to that particular wild goose chase. Perhaps rooster chase would have been a more apt description for those shenanigans. Jo mocked Raylan mercilessly for being taken so easily, adding insult to considerable physical injury. Had his time spent with Arlo Givens not provided enough insight into the internal workings of petty criminals? Plus, that pseudo baby voice his bleach blonde companion had exhibited should have been tell enough.

Speaking of Arlo Givens, Jo received a courtesy call from Art one morning, informing her that David Vasquez would be offering a deal to the elder convict. If he divulged the identity of Drew Thompson, then he'd be granted an early release from prison. Obviously, the notion didn't sit well with Raylan, who traipsed off to Harlan County, with the intent of finding their mysterious fugitive in an attempt to squander his daddy's deal. This quest led him to Josiah Cairn who pointed him in the direction of the hill people. Raylan had been foolish enough to trust the word of that nefarious parole but had escaped the confrontation relatively unscathed, and with enough valuable information to spur their search forward. Josiah hadn't fared as favorably, losing a foot for his meddling efforts.

The entire holler seemed entangled in the hunt for Drew Thompson. It was all very theatrical and, Jo felt, a bit excessive, but she found their fruitless endeavors entertaining nonetheless.

One evening, Jo arrived home to find Tim already there. He'd quickly taken full advantage of having unfettered access to her place, as was evident from his reclined position on her couch, casually sipping a beer in hand. She shot him an amused smile before heading into the bedroom to change out of her work attire.

Tim didn't trail after her, but his raised voice followed her into the next room. "My buddy Mark called to meet up. You wanna tag along?"

"You have buddies?" Jo called in feigned shock, trading her slacks for a more comfortable pair of shorts. Her answer came as she undid the buttons on her silk blouse. "We served together in Iraq." Well, now she just felt guilty for preemptively mocking his ability to make friends.

Throwing a loose T-shirt over her head, Jo strolled back into the living room and plopped down on the couch beside him. Her hand instinctively resting on his clothed leg. When they were alone, she had trouble keeping her extremities to herself, though she made no effort to resist the urge. "Do you want me to meet your friend?" She asked carefully, with eyebrows raised.

"Sure, why not?" Tim replied shortly, finishing off the remnants of his beer. Placing the empty bottle on the end table, he stood and presented Jo a hand. Slipping her fingers across his rough palm, she allowed him to pull her from the sofa cushions.

Jo was relatively familiar with the VA, having chauffeured Arlo to similar establishments a time or two. Tim ushered her through the entrance with a gentle hand resting against her lower back. The contact made her skin tingle, even through the thin material of her shirt.

They turned the corner as a brunette man of similar age exited another set of double doors, striding towards them. He had dopey eyes, but his smile appeared good-natured. "I'm so sorry, man. The meeting went long," he threw a pointed thumb over his shoulder to indicate the room he'd just vacated.

Jo stood by, watching passively while the two men embraced. "Glad you're still going to meetings," Tim expelled with an air of relief, patting his companion firmly on the back.

Pulling away, Mark peered at Jo in confusion. "This your girl?" He asked, eyes bouncing between the unknown woman and his former comrade-in-arms.

Tim grinned at the question but made no move to correct his friend's assumption. "Mark, this is Jo. Jo, meet my buddy, Mark," he provided introductions for the two. Despite this being their first official meeting, it was clear that at least one proceeding conversation had revolved around discussing their respective relationships. They were strangers, but not entirely unfamiliar.

Jo and Mark politely shook hands in greeting, before Tim drew attention by asking, "how's your leg?"

Mark scrunched up his right pant leg, revealing a long pink scar running the length of his calf. The wound was closed but remained raw and prominent against the pale skin. "Well, doc says I need one more surgery. Pins pinch like hell. Tramadol helps some, but I gotta tell you, much as Oxy screwed up my life, it sure knocked out the pain," he confessed while rolling his jeans back down around his ankle.

Ah, so Mark had fallen victim to the Hillbilly Heroin. That shit was a plague amongst men, particularly prominent in the state of Kentucky. Didn't help that being a veteran increased his risk for chemical dependency. Jo's musings were interrupted by Tim, suggesting, "you try acupuncture?"

Mark blinked several times, grinning wide when he questioned, "that needle bullshit?"

"You remember Chewy, that CSAR Helo pilot pulled us out of Sangin, karaoke badass? Said it helped him with his back." The realization that this was the most she'd ever heard Tim talk about his time in the Rangers, was a crushing one. She'd always figured it was too traumatizing a topic to discuss, so Jo had intentionally avoided the subject. Although, without the knowledge, she hardly knew the person standing beside her.

Mark shrugged at the observation, and ribbed, "maybe help you with your menstrual cramps, then."

Tim's countenance was blank, and his tone flat when he shot back, "nah, those went away once I got on birth control."

The second the joke fell from Tim's lips, both men turned towards Jo, gauging her expression, seeing if she'd taken offense to their mocking of female struggles. Smirking, she commented, "saves me the trouble of pulling out too," which evoked a round of hearty laughter from the two males.

When their chortles died down, Mark's face became serious. "I...I appreciate you coming," he began wearily. Tim gave her a slight nod, and she let him lead Mark away so they could discuss his troubles privately. Not that he wouldn't inform her of their conversation later. Jo wasted time reading a nearby bulletin board, not that anything posted provided much interest. This was a world she'd walked amongst, but didn't belong in.

Tim returned to her side some minutes later, absent of Mark this time. His arm naturally slipping around her waist while he leaned in and whispered, "I've gotta go help Mark out at his dealer's place. You're going to wait in the car."

Jo audibly tsked at his command and argued, "I think I've got more experience with dealers than you." Tim's head immediately cocked back at her statement, appearing baffled. "Not like that," she assured him with a roll of the eyes. "Besides, you two are less likely to get shot with a pretty girl in attendance."

"Jo. No," he said with a vigorous shake of the head, his stare hard and his timbre warning.

"Tim. Yes," she countered, her tone clipped, leaving no room for further discussion. She'd always been stubborn; he had only himself to blame for allowing her to come along.

A short time later, the trio found themselves outside Mark's dealer's apartment. Tim spent the entire ride silently brooding over Jo's insistence that she join them inside. His intentions to protect her were honorable, but Jo had found herself in far worse predicaments with far worse people, and she'd always managed. His incessant worrying was for not.

Mark knocked, and the door opened to reveal a short man with stringy shoulder-length hair. His pointed features resembled that of a rat. "You got balls of steel, showing up like this," he commented to Mark shortly.

"I'm just here to resolve our issue," Mark promised with hands raised in surrender.

"Who're they?" The noticeably agitated man asked, head inclining towards Mark's company.

"We're just friends. You want to let us in, or you wanna discuss drug deals out here on your porch?" Tim announced. His stance firm and his body intentionally blocking most of Jo from the drug dealer's sight.

The man's eyes shifted between the three until he eventually stepped aside and opened the door wider to allow them entry. Mark's mouth hung open, perhaps in shock of Tim's casual demeanor, and possibly in fear for the situation they were willingly walking into.

From down the hall came another man, he hopped in his steps while trying to lift his pants back into place simultaneously. His shirt held crumpled against his chest. The dealer shouted at him to leave quickly.

They'd stumbled into some real shady shit, if the perturbed look on Tim's face was anything to go by. Jo kept her features impassive while evaluating their surroundings.

Once they hit the open living space, Mark began stripping. He got down to his tighty whities with alarming speed. Tim bit out an affronted, "dude," at the view of his friend scantily clad.

"Everyone strips comes in here," the short man instructed, getting in Tim's face. "Only way I can be sure you ain't wearing a wire. Oh, and that I'm the only one packing."

Mark apologized profusely while offering an awkward chuckle. Tim looked thoroughly unimpressed with the whole display, scoffing at the dealer's exhibit of control.

"You and your lady both take them off, or we're gonna have a major problem on our hands," he warned, lifting his shirt to reveal a pistol tucked into his waistband.

Tim sounded bored as he tried to quell the man's growing irritation. "Look, we're not here to score. We're just here to work out Mark's debt."

The dealer huffed at his words, hand lingering on his unveiled weapon. "Debt? That what he told you? Well, last time I saw this piece of shit, he ripped me off. Eight hundred bucks. And a bottle of Oxys."

It appeared his buddy Mark wasn't quite as boyish and charming as his looks implied. "What the hell, man?" Tim asked, exasperated by this new revelation.

Mark's constant grinning was a defense mechanism, Jo realized, watching him smile from ear to ear while trying to talk his way out of the predicament he'd blindly walked them into. "Hey, hey, all right. Everybody just calm down. Okay, last time I was here, I was high, and I took some things that weren't mine, but that's why I'm here now. To make things right."

"Oh, you want to make things right? Well, then you gonna give me double what you stole," the rat-faced man stipulated. They bickered back and forth about Mark's inability to pay for a minute, when the dealer suddenly brandished his gun at the unclothed man. Tim's reflexes were instant, unholstering his own weapon and pointing it at the dealer's temple.

"Good thing I never took my pants off, huh?" Tim proclaimed, his hand holding the firearm steady. "Now, Mark's trying to make things right with you. You need to let him. It's just gonna take you a little longer to settle up than you might've hoped."

The man's neck turned to survey the gun pointed at his head, and his eyes rose to assess Tim's unwavering resolve. "Well, patience might be a virtue, but waiting sucks."

"Well, I agree with that. But getting your money and living is better than getting shot, don't you think?" Tim droned evenly. He hadn't so much as blinked in the face of their precarious situation. "Now, what do you say we lower our guns at the same time as a show of faith?"

A tense beat passed before they slowly dropped their weapons in unison. Jo pushed her way between the three men once the guns were returned to their rightful places. "If you boys are done measuring your dicks," she drawled sarcastically. "I've got twelve hundred. Take it, and we can call this problem resolved," she made her offer to the dealer.

Tim and Mark swiftly perked up to argue, but she silenced their cautions with a wave of the hand. "You said yourself, waiting sucks," she reasoned to the man before her.

"I also said double," the dealer countered, hands cocked on each hip to convey his annoyance.

Jo tittered at the suggestion. "You'll take twelve hundred because you can have it now, and be clear of this mess." The challenge behind her squinted eyes was undeniable.

The dealer released a hard exhale, and begrudgingly agreed to her terms. Jo extracted a tightly wrapped roll from her purse and handed it over. The greasy man snatched the wad of money from her hand in a manner that could only be described as ungrateful.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Jo snipped, and the trio made for the door.

Mark thanked her nearly a thousand times on the walk back to the car. Each time, she assured him that it was no problem, but, regardless, he pulled her in for a tight bear hug prior to climbing into his own vehicle.

"You didn't need to do that," Tim finally interrupted their silent drive back to her place.

"You're right, I didn't," Jo agreed, gazing out the passenger window. "But, now Mark's clear of his debts. It's up to him to decide what to do with his clean slate."

Tim's hand slid across the center console and grasped hers from where it lay limply in her lap. Jo's eyes shifted away from the scenery, to watch his thumb idly trace patterns across her knuckles. "Well, I appreciate it all the same. Twelve hundred is a lot of money."

She laughed at the assertion. "Money doesn't matter much to me. Besides, attorneys make bank, I'll have you know," Jo teased and squeezed Tim's hand a measure harder with her own. "You've taken care of mine. I don't have a problem taking care of yours," she added, her voice dropping to a whisper.

Quiet filled the cab as the miles passed. "Did you ever get into drugs?" Tim questioned, eventually. He knew her mother had been a junkie, and her earlier statement about being familiar with drug dealers had him wondering.

"No, I always knew better than to go that route," Jo admitted. "I figured I'd enjoy the escape too much, and then I'd be done for. Booze is the only vice I ever bothered taking to. You?"

Tim shook his head to indicate the contrary. "I saw enough soldiers in the Rangers, and after, lose themselves. Turned me off the hard stuff permanently." She watched his profile, saw the tinge of sorrow overtake his features while he got lost in unpleasant memories. Life wasn't fair. You sacrifice yourself to the service of others, and all you're left with are the demons that haunt you.

"Well, at least we'll always have whiskey," she mused in consolation as they pulled into the drive.


	22. Chapter 22

Jo got the call first, she knew that with certainty. Her steadfast connections at the prison had never failed her before, and she had no reason to assume they suddenly would.

Hanging up, she turned back towards the conference table and began haphazardly shoving paperwork in her briefcase. "Judge Reardon, we'll have to resume this at a later date," she stated briskly, slamming the carrier and locking its contents safely away.

"Now, hang on a minute, Ms. Taylor," the judge tried to argue while waving a disapproving finger in her direction, but she was already up and out the door. His disagreement fell on deaf ears and an empty room.

She hurried up the stairs, taking two at a time. There was no point in waiting for the rickety elevator to make its gradual appearance. Bursting through the double doors, Jo strode across the Marshal's office, past the row of desks where Raylan and Tim sat, confused by her sudden and ruffled appearance. She marched into Art Mullen's office and flung the door closed behind her, giving them some semblance of privacy.

The Chief Deputy peered up at her from his seated position, hands hovering over the keyboard in their typing, frozen in shock at her unexpected intrusion.

"You're about to get a call," Jo announced, her fingers gripping the handle of her briefcase until the knuckles turned white.

Art appraised her over the top of his reading glasses. She looked concerned, which in turn made him nervous. "Do we have a problem?" He asked, taking off his spectacles, and sitting up straighter in his chair, alert.

The phone rang loudly beside him, and Jo sighed, knowing what unfortunate news awaited them on the other end. "Yeah, we do," she grumbled prior to Art picking up the headset.

While he spoke to the warden, Jo turned and gazed out the glass walls constructing the Chief's office. Tim was watching her wearily. His expression held the silent question, 'what's going on?' She only offered him a slight shake of the head, which did nothing to satiate his growing curiosity. Raylan, too, stared at her skeptically, muttering something unheard to the older woman seated at his desk.

The sound of the phone being returned to its receiver had Jo pivoting back towards Art. His brows and mouth were pulled into a heavy frown. "Well, shit," he expressed, pushing away from the computer and lifting himself out of the chair. He maneuvered past Jo, easing the door open enough to call Raylan's name, gesturing for him to join them with a crooked finger.

Raylan let out a huff as he approached the office, rubbing his face in exaggerated exasperation. Clearly, he wasn't expecting, not remotely prepared, for Art to announce, "Arlo took a shiv to the chest. They don't think he's gonna make it through the night."

Raylan stilled, his face pinched in uncertainty. His narrowed eyes shifted between Art and Jo, trying to determine whether they were joshing him or not. "Have Tim finish up with Eve if you want," Art offered gently, but Raylan swiftly denied the suggestion.

"No, I was almost done," he mumbled, fingers pressing into his left temple while he slowly processed the news.

"I was planning on heading down now, but I can wait for you," Jo suggested, knowing good and well her proposition would be rebuffed. Raylan's head sharply inclined to the contrary, and he began gradually easing his way out the room.

"I'm sorry," Art conveyed his condolences. The sentiment had Raylan halting in his exit. He floundered for a moment, eyes closed. His mouth fell open, then snapped shut as he searched for the words. "Thanks," he responded quickly and trudged back to his desk.

He could hate his daddy all he wanted, but Arlo was the last bit of blood Raylan had left on this earth. That meant something, one way or the other.

Art hovered in the doorway, carefully watching his problematic deputy return to work. "You want Tim to go with you?" He questioned Jo, though his eyes didn't stray from Raylan's retreating form.

Jo shrugged, she didn't see much point in dragging anyone else along with her. "I'm sure he has better things to do than watch me watch a dying man," she passively remarked.

"Well, let's leave that up to him," Art commented, making eye-contact with Tim, and cocking his head back in a come-hither motion.

Tim quickly rose from his seat and joined the pair, leaning against the door frame. Jo loudly popped the knuckles of her free hand with her thumb but made no move to explain the situation, so the responsibility fell to Art. "Arlo took a shiv to the chest. He's not gonna make it," he informed, repeating the reality for the second time in so many minutes. "Jo's headed there now, if you'd like to go with her."

The proposal lingered in the stagnant air between them. Jo's countenance and posture gave no indication of her preference; she just watched the adjacent wall intently and remained mute. "Yeah, alright," Tim agreed, making the decision for her.

The drive to Tramble seemed longer than Jo remembered. The sun was shining, and the trees swayed in the breeze as they passed, but her surroundings appeared dull to her now.

"You know, Arlo used to bring me things when I was a girl. Dresses he assumed I'd like, jewelry he thought was pretty. I'm sure it was all shit he stole, but it was something," she mused aloud. Tim had been watching her intently out of his periphery while he drove them to their destination, silently gauging her demeanor. She'd lashed out at him after Helen's death; he couldn't imagine the circumstances surrounding Arlo's would cause her to respond any better. Although, things had changed since then. They had changed.

"It's funny, come tonight, I'll be an orphan for the second time in my life," Jo continued, her voice and eyes further away than seated right next to him. She wondered if there was something more she could have done to avoid all this death and destruction. A small part of her, a part she was ashamed to acknowledge, considered that if Raylan had never returned to his home state, none of this dust would have been kicked up.

"You've still got Raylan," Tim commented as if it were some consolation.

She hummed in agreement. "Yeah, until he gets shot again." It was only a matter of time until that particular powder keg blew, and they all knew it. One can only live their life on the edge so long until they're bound to fall over it. Arlo and Helen's demises provided proof enough.

The infirmary smelt strongly of disinfectant, and it burned Jo's nose as she breathed the air in heavily. Arlo was lying in the hospital bed, covers drawn up high on his chest. The dim overhead lighting bathed him in an eerie glow, casting shadows over his aged face. His right brow was bandaged, and the side of his mouth stained with dried blood, remnants of the battle he'd engaged in for his life. The machines measuring his heartbeat beeped steadily.

Jo reached over and flattened his tousled white hair, so it lay flat against his head. The thin strands felt soft beneath her fingertips. Arlo made no movement, but she'd been warned he might sleep throughout her visit. Easing herself back onto the stool beside his bed, Jo wondered what she was supposed to do here. Other than watch him slowly drift away in front of her very eyes.

She started and stopped several times. When an expression arose, she thought better of it and swallowed it back down. Too long passed in silence until she settled on, "I don't know what to say here, Arlo. I was never sure if you liked me much, or just tolerated me for Helen's sake. Maybe I'm the last person who should be here." Her verbal contemplation was both for her own benefit, and for the benefit of the man resting motionless in the infirmary bed.

After a few moments, his eyes slowly fluttered open, but they weren't focused on anything in particular. The drugs were stealing his pain away, but they left him floating in a semiconscious haze. "There he is," Jo tried to sound optimistic in the wake of his responsiveness, but melancholy permeated the resonance of her voice. Arlo didn't speak, but raspy breaths emanated from his chest, and his face appeared pained by the effort each inhale and exhale required.

There was no guarantee he'd last much longer, awake or alive, so Jo tried to say what she could with the time allotted. "I know it wasn't exactly your choice, but I appreciate everything you and Helen did for me. My life would look a lot different if you never took me in, so thank you, Arlo," she whispered, watching his eyes dance across the ceiling.

For a beat, nothing more was said. Jo believed he hadn't heard her confession, remaining as unaffected and still as he was. Regardless, she'd said her piece, and there was no more solace she could provide than ensuring he wasn't alone when being shuffled off this mortal coil.

Arlo's mouth finally moved, muttering something, but it was too faint to hear. Jo leaned closer, her ear hovering close to his head. His flesh looked a ghastly gray up close. "You were a good girl," he wheezed, giving her one last glance before his eyes fell shut, and sleep overtook him once more.

Emotion swirled in Jo's chest, rising up to choke her throat, and she couldn't swallow it away no matter how hard she tried. She patted Arlo affectionately on the shoulder and rose from the stool. She needed air, and some escape from the fatherly affirmation she hadn't been expecting.

Tim was waiting in the hallway; his back pressed against the cold cement wall. His eyes rose to meet Jo's when the door audibly clicked shut behind her. She looked like a lost child, her shoulders slumped, and eyes brimming with unshed tears. She'd never cried in his presence, not even close, he realized. He wouldn't be surprised if she never cried at all, audience notwithstanding. Not one tear was dropped when Helen died, nor when Raylan sat unconscious in the hospital after taking on the Bennetts. Now, however, she was clenching her hands so tightly at her sides that the tendons visibly strained under the skin. Her nails digging into the flesh of her palms while she tried to fight back the urge to weep openly.

Pushing away from the wall, he approached her slowly, and gently pulled her into his chest, his chin coming to rest atop her head. He rubbed soothing circles into her shoulder, but her body remained limp despite his comforting touch. He'd never seen her so defeated, or anything less than composed. Her eyelashes sparklingly with unabating tears, he found her beautiful in her dolor.

"Jo," he spoke her name hesitantly into the deathly silent hallway, weary of breaking the reverberating stillness surrounding them. She susurrated in acknowledgment, but her eyes never lifted to engage his own. They remained fixed on the floor, watching her shoes lightly scuff back and forth against the tiles.

The compulsion to allow the utterance to spill from his open mouth was working in direct conflict with his brain, which desperately screamed that this wasn't the appropriate time nor place for such declarations. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he continued against his better judgment. "I think I'm in love with you."

Whatever reaction Tim had been expecting to follow his confession, it wasn't Jo physically recoiling from both his words and touch. A grimace contorted her features as the proclamation permeated her mind. Her thoughts tumbling uncontrollably like marbles down a staircase. She took one, two, three steps away from him, distancing herself from both his person and the unwanted sentiment he presented.

"You should leave," she replied stiffly, not sparing a glance in his direction. Her shoulders were taut, her entire body clenched, poised as though ready for an oncoming battle. Her face, though, remained vacant, and her gaze lingered defiantly on the ground.

"I don't think I should," Tim tried to reason. He reached for her, hoping to quell her visibly surmounting fury, but she shrank back from the contact, pulling further away. She met his eyes then, but the look contained within her irises was deadened.

Given all the mess she already had to deal with, he felt now was the opportune moment to drop even more worries in her lap? She'd have to plan Arlo's funeral. After all, he was busy dying in the next room, and god knows Raylan would be too preoccupied plotting revenge to be bothered with it. But, now he wanted to make this moment about them? Resentment bubbled in Jo's chest, outrage leaking from every pore like an overflowing pot. "You really should. I don't wanna hear that shit, and it don't help," she spat viciously.

"Just go," she seethed behind clenched teeth.

Hard brown clashed with apprehensive blue while she leered at him in challenge. The void between the two was insurmountable, and it threatened to swallow them whole. Tim's jaw clenched, she saw the muscles tick beneath the skin, could almost hear the gears in his mind turning. Even so, Jo felt nothing but contempt towards him for forcing her into this perilous position.

Why couldn't he just leave well enough alone?

Seeing her walls hold firm, observing her unwavering conviction, had Tim growing incensed in turn. "Why's it always gotta be one step forward, two steps back with you?" His tone was bathed in agitation, and he probably would have tried to shake some sense into her, if he weren't certain she'd duck his hands.

Jo only gave a noncommittal shrug in response to his question. "I guess we are who we are," she stated callously.

Something between a growl and an aggressive laugh sounded from Tim's chest. The insecure look in his eyes had given way to a severe stare. "If I go, I'm not coming back. I'm done having you jerk me around like a dog on a chain." Each word falling from his lips dripped with disdain, both at her for being so heartless, and whatever unfortunate circumstances had crafted her this way.

Jo's voice was cold and blunt when she told him, "Good. No one asked you here anyway. I was doing just fine on my own."

Tim's eyes were reduced to slits as he appraised her one last time, standing unyielding in her certitude, before he turned on his heels and left her alone. Just like she'd demanded.

He'd been foolish enough to believe things could really change. That people could really change.

Time passed without consequence. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, but, eventually, Raylan came to bid farewell to his daddy. "Where's Tim?" He asked, seeing her alone in the infirmary, save for Arlo's broken body.

Jo barked out a haughty laugh, but no humor reached her solemn face. "You were right. I managed to screw that up all on my own," she repeated back the promise he'd spoken in anger all those months prior. Raylan watched after her baffled, but she provided no further explanation. Just patted him twice on the shoulder and abandoned the room, leaving him alone with his dying father.

_**I hate me too, you ain't special. However, this was always part of the plan, so bear with me. There's a method to the madness, I promise.**_


	23. Chapter 23

Jo knew she was being habitually self-destructive, she bore no illusions otherwise. She'd long ago figured it was easier to pull the pin and implode a situation from the inside, rather than afford others the opportunity to get the jump on you. Sure, it wasn't the most productive way of living. Masochism, some would call it, but there's consistency and comfort in knowing you've got full control of a situation, especially its destruction.

Raylan had said his farewells to Arlo, or whatever constituted a goodbye given their stunted father-son relationship. He wasn't there when Arlo passed, but he circled back around to pick Jo up once he'd received the call. They drove to Lexington in silence, discussing none of the relationships the unfortunate day had claimed as its victims.

Her home was empty when she arrived; Jo held no delusion it would be otherwise. The key she'd gifted Tim sat dead center on her coffee table. The overhead lighting bounced off the grooved metal, its shine taunting her. The few items he'd left at her place were gone too. His clothes no longer hung in the closet. His bag of toiletries was absent from the bathroom. He'd wasted no time in making good on his promise, and Jo wasn't certain how she felt about it. Mostly apathetic, probably, in all honesty. Her mind swirled like a tornado, with countless conundrums spinning endlessly. The least concerning was her disintegrated relationship with the blonde Marshal. At least, that's what she willed herself to believe.

Jo packed up enough belongings to last the week and headed back down to Harlan. She rescheduled her many appointments and court hearings along the way. She'd spend the next few days planning Arlo's funeral, laying his body to rest next to Francis'. Now, the only headstone that sat without a body beneath it was Raylan's, for now.

Jo kept herself busy in the following days, fixing up the Givens' home, effectively distracting herself from all other issues that loomed. There was a dark cloud undoubtedly creeping towards her, but if she staunchly negated its existence, she could continue to pretend that everything was normal.

She was boxing up Arlo's old clothes, preparing to drop them at the nearest Goodwill, when Raylan called. "What's up?" Jo asked, balancing the phone between her ear and shoulder, her hands working on folding one of the dead man's shirts.

"Please tell me you're back in Lexington," Raylan's voice called through the line. He sounded agitated, which had Jo dropping the faded fabric in favor of cradling the phone in her hand. He had her complete attention.

Her answer was hesitant. "No, I'm still at the house. I told you I was gonna try and clean up the place." Apparently, this was not the answer he'd been hoping for because he grumbled audibly into the phone.

"Alright, just stay put," he demanded before hanging up on her.

Whatever shitstorm Jo had been expecting to blow through their front door, it wasn't all of the Marshal's service with half the staties in tow. Guess her troubles had come due and then some. "What's with all the theatrics?" Jo asked as Art Mullen lumbered through the screen door. Raylan trailed behind him, dragging Shelby along by the arm.

"They're here for him," Raylan griped, his head tilting to indicate the handcuffed man beside him. "Drew Thompson."

Jo was rather impressed. The county sheriff had been the notorious fugitive eluding them all this time, hidden right in plain sight. "So, not your helicopter then," she observed, the blades whirling loudly overhead. An eye roll was all she received for confirmation.

The house bustled with officers and deputies trying to decipher a way out of this mess. Art was speaking with Lexington Air Ops, intending to get an air evacuation ready. Though, given that Tonin had his own copter loitering, Jo wasn't exactly sure how that would work. There was real potential for a chase through the skies of Harlan County. Tim was posted in the yard, rifle poised to shoot down the hovering machine if need be. Thankfully, he was outside, so they could delay that awkward encounter for a little longer.

"Our guys are with LPD Air Ops fueling the helicopter. It'll be wheels up in fifteen minutes, another thirty minutes of flight time," Art informed the room. That gave them an awfully long time to be nothing more than sitting ducks in their childhood home.

Raylan appeared to have the same thought. "We can't sit here for another hour," he argued.

"Thirty plus fifteen is forty-five," Art countered from his spot leaning across the kitchen bar window. He was doing that eyebrow thing, which said he didn't have much hope.

"The better part of an hour," Raylan conceded. "We don't know how many men Tonin's sent. You want the Battle of Bloody Porch?" It was a fair question. If Tonin's crew rolled up, they'd be in some dire straits, and Jo's unexpected presence only made matters worse.

Rachel abandoned her spot at the window where she'd been surveying the landscape for any impending threats. "The what?" She questioned, confused.

"_The Wild Bunch_," Art clarified. Yeah, that reference was a little before their time.

"Art, we got to move, and we got to move soon," Raylan pressed. He was growing antsy while they laid in wait for their opponent to make the first move. Being a bump on a log had never suited him anyway.

Art reiterated, "KSP's not ready," as another officer joined them inside.

"Got six units headed inbound. They'll meet us over the pass. Once we get to the highway, we can have those units leapfrog, shut down the on-ramps. Go 80, 85, should make it to Lexington in two hours," he notified. Two hours was a good deal longer than forty-five minutes and carried more considerable variables.

Jo voiced this concern shared by the room's occupants. "Yeah, but with Tonin's men following you, how many obstacles are gonna be thrown up in your way?" They all exchanged weary glances. Each option possessed its own pitfalls. They'd just have to choose the lesser of all evils and make do.

Raylan devised a plan to split up. Half would drive in a decoy through the pass; another would head to the secondary location where they could wait, unhindered, for Air Ops.

He pulled Jo aside while everyone else set about putting their plan into action. "You can't stay here," Raylan remarked. With everyone disbanding, she'd be an easy target if left unprotected at Arlo's house.

"I'll come with you then," Jo suggested, knowing the only remaining alternative was less than desirable.

His head shook in disagreement. "No. Drew Thompson is who they're after, and they won't hesitate in shooting either one of us in getting to him."

Jo's face fell into a stern frown. "Raylan, that's not a good idea," she said, already guessing at his preferred option. Now was not the ideal time nor circumstance to awake those particular demons.

"You'll be safest with the convoy, and I trust Art and Tim won't let anything happen to you." Yeah, maybe that was true for the former, but not for the latter, not anymore. It didn't seem she had much choice in the matter, however, because she was quickly being loaded into the back of Tim's SUV against her will.

Jo caught the driver subtly peeking at her through the rearview mirror, but once their eyes met, he swiftly averted his. "Keep your head down," Tim snipped and pulled out of the drive.

Heading through the pass, everyone was tensely mute and alert. KSP led, the tow truck followed, Tim's SUV came third, and bringing up the rear was Dunlop in Raylan's town car, wearing his infamous cowboy hat.

The vehicles were cruising along, when Tim suddenly slammed on the breaks and laid on the horn, instantly halting their motorcade. Jo's seatbelt strained painfully across her chest while being flung forward as their momentum came to an immediate standstill.

She and Art stared at him, baffled. "What the hell? What are you doing?" Art expressed in bewilderment. His hands clung to the dashboard, where he'd extended his arms to brace himself.

"It's not right," Tim announced, his eyes scrutinizing their surroundings carefully.

Well, that didn't give much in the way of an explanation. It just looked like a desolate stretch of road to both Jo and Art. "What's not right?" The Chief inquired.

"One abandoned car beside the road is no big deal, but two so close together? That's weird," Tim stated, pupils' searching the tops of their encompassing landscape.

Jo and Art spoke in unison. "Weird how?" She wondered. "That's Kentucky," he submitted skeptically. Clearly, they weren't seeing whatever it was Tim was seeing.

Unsurprisingly, he chose to acknowledge Art's statement, and not her question. "How about a third?" Tim pointed towards another abandoned vehicle ahead.

It could be considered unusual, but deserted automobiles weren't an entirely unheard-of phenomenon, especially in Kentucky. "What're you thinking, IEDs?" Art tried to follow his course of concern.

Tim's face was grim when he assured, "I'm not thinking confetti cannons." His incertitude could be chalked up to either experience or paranoia, but no one could say with certainty which was winning out in that moment.

Art readjusted uncomfortably in the passenger's seat, appraising his anxious deputy. "Are you sure about this?" He asked, still not entirely sold on the notion. It would take planning and forewarning to stage explosives on their route, and they'd been pretty tight-lipped with their escape plans.

"For all I know, I'm just having a full-blown PTSD episode," Tim confessed. There was still so much Jo didn't know about him, and that was currently being illuminated with stark clarity.

Art was cautious with his next question, not wanting to push too hard, or have him reveal too much given their precarious position. "You get those a lot?"

"Only when I'm handling firearms in public," Tim admitted. An underlying truth was held beneath the admission. His PTSD episodes happened with consistent frequency, given their occupation.

The radio sounded, interrupting their exchange, and Dunlop's voice buzzed through the line. "What are we doing, guys?"

Tim lifted the device to his lips and curtly instructed, "pull up behind us, and stay off the goddamn radio." Art's neck turned to look behind them, where Dunlop restlessly sat, impersonating Raylan.

"We got binoculars in here?" Jo asked unexpectedly. The two men pivoted to stare at her in puzzlement. "Would they set this up and leave, or sit and watch?" She aided in their understanding, her eyes bouncing between Art and Tim.

"They'd wait," Tim responded begrudgingly. He wasn't thrilled Jo was tagging along to begin with, but now there were potentially explosives in play, and he'd just admitted to experiencing flashbacks. The fragility of their situation already made this excursion downright intolerable.

"Exactly, so give me some binoculars, and I'll look while you two figure something out," she concluded while presenting an open palm. Unlatching the glove compartment, Tim wordlessly rifled around for what she'd asked for. Withdrawing the item, he passed it along to the backseat. Their fingers briefly met as Jo took possession of the binoculars, and the contact burned, causing them both to retract their hands at once. Mere days ago, they couldn't keep their extremities to themselves. Now, they were like magnets with shared poles, repelling one another.

While this cringeworthy brush was taking place, Art put a call into Raylan, informing him of their predicament. "Raylan, we've stopped down. Tim's feeling a setup," he announced. The conversation continued, though they were only privy to the one side. "It could be. I think you should peel off right now. Go to the alt."

Nodding his head along with Raylan's assumed assertion, Art hung up the phone and turned back to the pair. "Well, what do we do? We go back?" He wondered aloud.

"Not if the car behind us is filled with high explosives," Tim countered, throwing his hand up in emphasis. They were damned if they pulled forward and equally damned if they tried to reverse.

Art pressed his certainty, "and you think it is?" It wasn't that he didn't explicitly trust his deputy's instincts, but if Tim was right, they were in a world of trouble.

"I think so," Tim assured him. Jo was more disquieted by his steely demeanor and potential for psychological relapse, than the possibility of car bombs.

"How could they pull this off?" Art asked, perturbed. It would have been a mighty good guess if their adversaries knew the Marshals were planning to head down the pass before they'd made the decision themselves.

Tim pulled out his cellphone and began searching through the contacts. "Boyd has an Iraq and Afghan veteran in his crew. Colton Rhodes. Ex-M.P., drummed out for drugs," he relayed casually.

"And you have his number?" Art showed his shock as Tim pressed the phone to his ear.

"Our paths have crossed," he explained simply, with raised eyebrows and his mouth set in a firm line.

Jo continued to scour the countryside throughout the discussion taking place in the front of the vehicle. She was utterly useless in this scenario. A burden, truly. She'd run to Arlo's with the intention of escaping the Marshals, albeit temporarily. The irony that, in doing so, she'd inadvertently placed herself directly in their path, wasn't lost on her. Karma really was a bitch, and she'd come back with a vengeance to exact her revenge on Jo for acting foolish.

They waited while the line rang, the sound echoing through the silent cab. The helicopter still hovering overhead, providing consistent white noise. "Hello, Bagram," Tim drawled when the call was answered. Art instructed him to switch over to speakerphone, so they could be enlightened to both sides of the conversation. "Am I right in saying that you were in the sandbox before Afghanistan?"

"I am a double winner," proclaimed the voice on the other end, Colton Rhodes. "Is that why you called, to ask me that?"

Despite their perilous position, Tim couldn't contain his smart mouth. "Oh, why? You busy?"

"I am in the middle of something." Even if Colton's tone wasn't suspicious enough, the same chirping of the helicopter blades could be heard through the speaker, indicating he was still close by.

This detail didn't go unnoticed by either Tim or Art. The former continued on with the spurious phone call. "All right, I'll make it quick. I'm writing a book set in Iraq. There's a chapter where a convoy of military police is transporting a criminal, and Lieutenant Dan, he's our main guy, he gets a bad feeling-"

Tim was interrupted in the course of his outlandish storyline description. "_Forrest Gump_. There's a Lieutenant Dan in _Forrest Gump_," Colton commented, further wasting their already precious time.

"Oh, shit. You're right. I'll change it. Lieutenant Colt." It was comforting to know Tim's smartass tendencies weren't exclusively reserved for close friends and coworkers. His biting wit couldn't even take a break when their lives hung in the balance.

The challenge in his words was clear. Both Tim and Colt knew precisely where the other was in that moment and what thinly concealed question their conversation was alluding to. "I would like a young Gerard Depardieu to play me in the movie. I'm honored," Colt mocked through the line.

"Well, you should be. He's a big guy, real badass, or he was. He's kind of losing his grip. When we meet him, he's lost someone. He started using dope that he confiscated," Tim taunted in return, effectively getting a rise from the fellow veteran.

Colton didn't take the implied slight in stride. "Yeah, but then we find out that he's kicked again. And anyone who thinks he's in any way diminished is in for a big surprise," he tried to defend the previous offense to his temperament and habit.

Tim relentlessly riled up the man on the other end strategically. "Yeah, but he's the kind of character might say he's kicked, but we all know he's just one broken shoelace away from saying 'screw it' and picking up again." The assumption had Jo contemplating what he really thought of her disposition but had been too polite to relay. Was she continually teetering on the edge of a broken shoelace type breakdown?

The insult forcibly landed, and Colton's inflection became clipped. "How about you have him go into a bar and pick a fight with some Rangers, and he sends a couple of them to the hospital?"

"It's not a fantasy," Tim droned sarcastically. "Anyway, he gets a bad feeling when they pass an abandoned vehicle, sees a second and a third, so he's thinking IEDs triggered by cell. You ever come across anything like that?" Now, they were finally reaching the meat of the matter.

"Me, personally? No, but I did hear about this one convoy, couple of Frankensteins and a gun truck on Highway 10. So, the spotter, he calls a halt between the first two cars. Thinking the hajis will blow the second if it moves forward, and the first if it tries to go back." If there was any residual doubt about their current predicament, it had been obliterated with that statement. Tim's intuition had been spot on.

"Well, how'd they get out of it?" He questioned gingerly. Of course, a solution couldn't be reached by simply asking, but maybe they could glean some insight into how to escape this dilemma.

Colt's timber was light when he answered, the false levity ridiculing their dubious situation further. "Yeah, they didn't. Because they were too afraid to move, they just sat there in their vehicles. Pissing and shitting in their helmets, too afraid to toss it out the windows on account of possible snipers. Then they ran out of food. They started eating each other till there was only one left, and he blew his brains out. Do you want to know the sad part?"

"Oh, there's a sad part?" Tim asked in feigned sorrow.

"Yeah. Because they were so afraid to move, they never found out whether or not the cars had explosives. So basically, they all died from being pussies," and the line went dead.

Jo chuckled from the backseat, the binoculars still pressed against her eyes. "I believe he just called you pussies," she observed humorously, though it probably wasn't the appropriate occasion for such jokes.

Neither man gave her comment any credence. "And now?" Art questioned, peering out the back window. They'd been stopped for far too long, and he was growing apprehensive from the prospect that they may have visitors joining them shortly.

Tim set the phone aside and straightened himself in the driver's seat. "Well, the good news is I'm not flashing back. But now they're gonna try to make us move." That had to mean bullets would be raining down upon them momentarily.

"So, what do we do?" Art inquired.

Tim's answer was succinct. "Move." Tires screeched as their SUV pulled up alongside the tow truck. Raylan's town car blocked the front and the KSP patrol car reversed at the rear. They'd circled the wagons.

Art scrambled out of the vehicle first, and propped his pistol up on the hood, scanning their environment for threats. Tim grabbed his rifle and made a move to exit the same, but Jo held him back. "I've got them up there on the ridge," she pointed in the indicated direction. "Colt and a sniper, hiding in the trees. If you take them out, is our problem solved?"

Tim lingered in his seat, hand stilled on the door handle, exclusively giving Jo his attention for the first time that day. Actually, it was the first time they'd been alone since the prison infirmary, and the air between them sat heavy with the knowledge. "Probably not. We'd still have to deal with the IEDs," he admitted. Then, Tim sucked in a harsh breath through his nose, as though bracing himself. "You need to stay inside the car, Jo. I mean it this time." His voice held an air of authority, and his stare was unwavering. Clearly, he expected her to argue because she'd shown an unrelenting habit of being defiant.

However, her head gradually bobbed in agreement. "I know. Timeout on everything else, I'm really not trying to fuck this up for y'all," Jo aimed to reassure. Now wasn't the time for distractions or hindering resentments, they needed to get out of this quandary and go aid Raylan.

"Timeout on everything else," he nodded, then swiftly evacuated the vehicle and stationed himself, rifle at the ready, on the tow truck.

By now, Raylan, Rachel, and Drew would have arrived at the alternative location, Evarts High School. Yet, the cavalcade was squandering so much precious time stalled on the pass. Jo couldn't hear the dialogue taking place outside the automobile; she could only watch the men fumble about. Tim expertly shot the gas tank of the closest abandoned vehicle. The petrol began to pour out of the bullet holes steadily. They intended to explode it themselves before it could be ignited on them.

The rear door opened, and Tim's head popped inside. "You got a lighter?" He asked, but Jo merely shook her head to the contrary. He huffed in agitation when her response was negative. "We're going to blow the car, so don't be surprised," he informed, before slamming the door shut. Once again, Jo was left unattended, with nothing but her own thoughts to keep her company.

Art was on his cellphone again, presumably conversing with Raylan. The helicopter, which had been incessantly skulking about the entire time, unexpectedly veered off in his direction. The convoy was left alone, without the ceaseless trill of rotating blades, for the first time. Tim was kneeled to the ground, working to fill a beer bottle with gasoline, plugging the neck with an old rag. That explained why he needed a lighter, for the Molotov cocktail he was building. However, it seemed no one had a convenient means of producing fire because he resorted to using a car battery and jumper cables to create a spark. The MacGyver look was kind of hot, Jo had to admit.

Once the rag was lit, Art and Tim momentarily squabbled over who would throw the flaming bottle. Art finally made the decision and chunked the burning glass at the still leaking car.

For a moment, the fire grew, licking at the dried brush along the highway, but nothing spectacular happened. Then, suddenly, a massive explosion blew, throwing a fireball high into the air as pieces of metal were violently flung about. All the officers and deputies quickly scrambled back to their vehicles, pulling off the shoulder, and heading back in the direction from whence they came. Speeding towards Raylan and the old high school.

When they arrived at Evarts, the same familiar scenario played out. Art hopped out first, and Tim turned to address her, but Jo cut him short. "Yeah, yeah, stay in the car, Jo. I know. Sitting idle is my new favorite activity. Just lock me in like a child waiting outside the grocery store," she commented, arms crossed and body sunk into the back seat. Her remark received a substantial eye roll before she was left solo yet again.

Jo had had plenty of time to think, sitting stationary in the back of Tim's SUV. Maybe the events of the day had put some things into perspective, life and death crises have a tendency to do that. Maybe she'd just been forcibly inactive in the backseat long enough for guilt and misgivings to set in. Who was to say, but, eventually, her mind began to wander to places she'd rather not travel.

If Raylan had finally caught Drew Thompson and managed to successfully get him out of Harlan alive, he could write his ticket anywhere. Conceivably, Raylan could leave Kentucky and go be with Winona and the baby. With him gone, there would be nothing left tying Jo to this life. That's what logic told her, but another minuscule voice in the back of Jo's subconscious whispered that this wasn't entirely true. And, it wasn't her job, growing friendship with Rachel, nor admiration for Art, which were giving her pause.

The juxtaposing arguments took turns batting her conviction back and forth like a game of badminton. Perhaps, if she stayed, she would only be in the way. Perhaps, it was time to allow someone to see the seasons of her youth. Perhaps, she could take something for herself, just because she could, if she chose.

Jo had been running this marathon away from her demons so long that she'd lost sight of both the start and the finish. Maybe it was time to give in to the chase unreservedly. Time to allow her monsters the opportunity to swallow her whole, and see what remained on the other side.

Men began gradually trickling out of the once deserted high school, their weapons lowered, so she had to assume the immediate danger had passed. Climbing out of the vehicle for the first time in so many hours, Jo stretched her legs, the joints popping and straining from prolonged disuse. Her arms extended above her head, and she arched her back, aiming to work out the kinks that had formed. She tried to relax her tense muscles, but they remained stiff, and not from her extended time relegated to the backseat.

"I thought I told you to wait in the car," Tim complained when he found Jo leaned up against the driver's side door. Although he wasn't entirely surprised, she'd remained stagnant for far longer than he would have expected.

Jo shrugged, "I was never great at following directions." Wasn't that the truth, and they both knew it. She and Tim assessed each other tentatively. Their timeout had expired, and now they were just two people trekking carefully across broken glass. "Think you can be a little late heading back to Lexington?"

Her question was unanticipated, and it showed in the sharp rise of Tim's eyebrows. "Why?" He asked, far removed from guessing at her ever veiled intentions.

"There's something it's high time I showed you," Jo explained without revealing much at all. "If you think they won't miss you." She deliberately left the ball in his court, saddling Tim with the decision whether or not to play along.

His eyes narrowed as he considered her. He'd proclaimed that he was finished with the chain she was using to jerk him around, but another invisible string tied them together, one which he couldn't ignore despite his better judgment.

Tim reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his car keys, tossing them at her carelessly. "Let's go," he concluded when she caught them easily.

_**I know a lot of this was lifted directly from the episode, but it's my favorite, so I couldn't resist. At least it was exceptionally long. The next chapter is going to be...something.**_


	24. Chapter 24

Jo shifted the car into park and killed the engine, but didn't make an immediate move to exit. She lingered in the front seat as her conviction wavered. The evening sun was gradually setting, bathing the dilapidated building ahead of them in an amber glow. She swore to herself she'd never come back here, but many self-made promises were broken by this point. What difference would a few more make?

Tim sat patiently in the passenger's seat, appraising her wearily. Whatever it was Jo had decided to reveal to him, he'd at least extend the common courtesy of allowing her to do it in her own time, on her own terms.

Her breathing was measured as her mind traveled back to remembrances she'd rather leave untrodden, but that wasn't the purpose of this particular exercise. Jo had brought them here to take a tour through her past. Inspecting each of the broken pieces like they were on display in a museum dedicated to her nightmares.

"What is this place?" Tim finally asked, his careful words shaking Jo from her reverie. She blinked several times, returning her mind to the present. Her sweaty palms gripped the steering wheel, trying to clasp to some semblance of reality. She entertained the impulse to back out. Contemplated announcing that she'd changed her mind, and committing to the lie that there was nothing to see here. They'd come too far, though. Had waved goodbye to the possibility of retreat as they'd driven right on past its turn-off point.

Jo had willingly swum into open waters, and there was no life raft available to save her from the tide threatening to pull her under. "This is where I grew up," she admitted grimly, then swung the car door open, stepping out onto the overgrown grass.

Her former home would be considered ramshackle at best by any casual observer. The majority of its exterior paint had been chipped away by the elements. Windows were shattered, and shutters hung loosely from its frame. She couldn't say it looked much more inhabitable when she'd lived there, but time had whittled away at the structure in its years spent neglected.

Jo's feet dragged her towards the entrance, though her mind screamed at them to halt in their traitorous motions. When they stalled on the threshold, her hand extended towards the doorknob. Fingers barely brushing the handle, before she retracted the extremity quickly, as if burned by the metal. "Once you know something, you can't unknow it. You sure you're willing to live with that?" Jo questioned Tim, though her eyes never strayed from the offending barrier before her. Truth lay on the other side, certainly, but it wasn't a good truth. More a burden of knowledge, really.

"I think I can handle it," he promised. His certitude wasn't earned, however. Tim had no concept of what he was voluntarily walking into, nor the far-reaching repercussions of such comprehension. It required a great leap of faith on both their parts. Jo, in trusting that he could handle the revelations she was finally willing to dole out. Tim, in believing that she would once and for all allow him a glimpse into her elusive mind.

Extending her hand again, Jo turned the knob and eased the entry open. The door creaked loudly when pushed forward; the hinges rusted and rigid from disuse. Despite the endless prospects Tim's mind had run rampant with, nothing exceptional lay on the other side. The interior was covered with a layer of filth, broken bits of furniture and trash were scattered about, but, otherwise, it simply looked like any other abandoned home.

The surprise shone on Tim's face, and Jo found herself chuckling. "Wasn't exactly the horrors you were expecting, huh?" She teased, although the humor didn't quite reach her eyes. "Only dark memories still reside here, nothing material," she mused, beginning to wander about the deserted room.

"My father was a drunk and a criminal, but you already knew that. He used to beat my momma senseless. I never could figure why she stayed, but I suppose that's what happens when you convince yourself you've got no other options," Jo relayed without any sort of inflection. She'd long ago isolated the part of her brain that felt any sort of way about her childhood. Locked those resentments up in a box and buried them so deep that even she couldn't remember where they'd been hidden.

She stalled near the far wall, picturing the moth-bitten plaid sofa that once settled there, but had eventually been hauled away—leaving only an empty spot in its wake. "Here's where I found her," Jo gestured to the vacant area, the indents from the couch legs still grooved into the shabby carpet. "I came home from school, and the smell hit me the moment I opened the door." There's no mistaking the stench of death; it's an odor unlike any other. Sour, and it assaults the sense entirely. Burns the nostrils and lingers there for ages.

"The flies were already swarming her body by the time I got there. She'd overdosed on Oxy, choked on her own vomit. At least, that's what they said." The image of her mother, lying in her own sick, was one Jo couldn't dispel from her mind no matter how hard she tried to repress it. The sight of her mother's skin, ghastly white and sunken, when Jo shook her. Trying frivolously to wake the lifeless corpse. She could still feel the waxy skin beneath her fingertips if she tried hard enough to remember.

"I'm sorry you had to experience that," Tim tried to sympathize, but she rebuffed his apology with a wave of the hand. There was nothing for him to be sorry about.

"She wanted a way out, and she found it," Jo reasoned before heading further into the residence. It was a callous perspective to hold, but she knew her mother's soul had died well before her body had. Some outcomes were merely inevitable.

She led them down the hall to another room, stopping in the open doorway. The four walls constructed a small area, which had once been her bedroom. It had been just enough space for a lumpy mattress and dresser. The dresser was absent, but the stained mattress still sat on the floor. No doubt, teenagers had broken into the home and used the empty place to their advantage. Jo leaned on the doorframe but didn't enter. "It only gets worse from here. Sure you're not ready to pull back?" Jo challenged Tim's certainty a second time, giving them both the opportunity to withdraw without shame.

"I'll listen to whatever you're willing to tell," he reassured, though Jo doubted he'd be able to maintain that level of confidence as the minutes dragged on.

She took a deep breath and stepped into the room. "Be careful what you wish for," Jo grumbled as she passed.

These quarters had never provided her a safe haven, not for a moment when she was forcibly confined to them in her youth. This bedroom was her own personal prison, and it still tormented her when allotted even a passing thought. Jo had long since mastered the art of hiding such damage, but there's no escape when your demons are staring you right in the face. "After my momma died, my father disappeared for a few days, no doubt on a bender. When he returned, well, I was the only one left to beat on. And that's all it was for a while, beatings," Jo's voice drifted off. Her eyes continued bouncing around the trashed room, seeing something other than what was presently there.

She could picture everything but felt nothing. It was like retelling a story that didn't belong to her. Jo wasn't that scared little girl anymore, and she'd disassociated from every part of her previous life until it felt like someone else's entirely. Only in her subconscious was the darkness allowed to creep back in. During sleep, when it wasn't caged and locked away, was it afforded the opportunity to run rampant. She'd see this room in her night terrors, the dingy walls closing in around her, sucking all the air from her lungs. "Then, one night, he burst through that door, broke the lock clear off. He was all manner of drugged and drunk," she explained, her eyes settling on the splintered wooden frame that remained.

Jo could still smell the bitter alcohol on his breath, the heat from it hitting her face, his clothes reeking of smoke. "And he…" her voice teetered off into nothingness, allowing Tim to fill in the details she left unspoken. She refused to give life to such recollections, rejected the possibility of speaking the actions into reality.

His back stiffened, his spine becoming ramrod straight. "You never told anyone?" He questioned, though he could already guess at the answer. He watched her with the same intensity he'd watch a target, no movement, no blinking, he hardly even breathed once the words fell from his lips.

Jo laughed sardonically at the notion. "That horror-stricken and pitying look you're carrying right now. Yeah, I wasn't interested in seeing that on everyone's faces for the rest of my life. Besides, that's not how we handle things here in Harlan," she relayed hauntingly. The intonation was a warning, a none too subtle hint that her tale hadn't reached its climax. The music was still building, increasing steadily to its crushing crescendo.

She strode past him, out of the offending room and back into the open living space. Her calm demeanor was equal parts imposing and harrowing. Jo was bitter, having to relive everything for a captivated audience, but she wasn't downtrodden or dejected. Tim supposed that was a practiced calm she'd perfected in the decade displaced from their current surroundings. "The next day, I went up to Mag Bennett's place. Stole away with one of the tainted mason jars we all knew she kept at the ready. When he demanded I make him a drink that night, I did. Then, I watched as the poison ate away at his insides, sat in that shitty old recliner."

Jo's eyes hovered over the spot where she'd watched her father sputter and groan as the life was sucked away from him. She felt just as deadened now as she had then. She figured, some people just don't deserve kindness, nor an easy passing. She didn't lift her eyes to engage Tim's, she could guess the look of shock and alarm that certainly marred his handsome features. "Once he stopped twitching, I dragged his body to the car. Drove up to one of the abandoned mineshafts that litter this county, and pushed what was left of him way down into the darkness."

She licked her lips, dried from too much talking, and the effort taken to maintain an even temperament. "You said you thought you were in love with me, but that's because you didn't know all the parts that make me unloveable. Now you do," Jo stated simply. There it was, all her burdens had been laid bare. Exposed, to be picked over and inspected like some fascinating mementos of a life gone horribly wrong.

When had the air encasing them become so stifling? Jo could feel the surrounding dust collecting in her lungs, threatening to suffocate her. She closed her eyes and willed her erratic heart to ease its treacherous thumping.

"You were just a kid, you did what you had to do to protect yourself," Tim tried to reason, but that was a justification she'd dispelled ages ago.

Her eyes snapped open, and she bit her lip harshly, shaking her head wistfully. "I've considered that, but then I remember how apathetic I was, watching him choke on his own tongue, and I know I'd do it again. Over and over again if I had to. There's no rationalization for my absence of remorse or guilt. I suppose that's just who I am, really. Harlan through and through."

Her statement was final. There was nothing left to see here. So, Jo trudged back outside the house, returning to the safety of the diminishing dusk. The air was lighter in the yard, and she could see the stars beginning to appear in the descending dark. She also could feel Tim's presence heavy behind her, but she didn't turn towards him. "I know you've got to do what you've got to do with what you know now. But understand, they ain't never gonna find his body. Even if they did, there's no evidence left. I can promise you that," she warned, her voice low and dangerous.

Pivoting back towards the ruins of her childhood home, Jo considered the wreckage one last time. "You know, I've often thought about setting fire to it, but this place doesn't deserve a quick demise. Better to let it decay into nothingness," Jo pondered aloud, before opening the driver side door and climbing into Tim's SUV.

She'd never return, not for the rest of her days. Some dead things should have the decency to remain as such.


	25. Chapter 25

"You gonna ask what I think?" Tim questioned as they parked the vehicle outside Arlo's. Well, the place was technically Raylan's now, but that didn't matter much.

Jo had said her piece at what had once been her childhood home, then gone decidedly mute on the short ride back. She sighed at the query. "I imagine you don't know what you think yet," she commented before climbing out the driver's side door.

"That's it?" He huffed, exiting the vehicle as well, only a step behind her. They ducked beneath the caution tape barring the door and sidestepped the blood smears in the living room. Until the pair halted in the kitchen.

Jo rummaged around in the cabinets until she found two glasses, and retrieved a half-empty bottle of bourbon to dispense into each.

"Do you want me to cry?" She commented sarcastically, which only received a glare of annoyance from Tim.

"No, really," she pressed while taking a swig from her heavily poured glass. "Am I supposed to be so irrevocably broken that only you can fix me? Shit happens. You either push your way through it or let it drown you. Life's a lot simpler than people make it out to be."

Again, she only received a silent stare from the man who had yet to touch his newly poured glass. The lack of engagement prompted her to clarify, "everything back there was for your benefit, not mine. I didn't say all that to unburden myself."

"Do you always gotta be difficult?" Tim finally spoke up. The interrogation elicited a tsk from Jo, who downed her own glass before claiming his abandoned one as well.

"It's a talent," she snipped in return. "You know, you can leave now. I can get myself back to Lexington." The offer of an easy out was on the table. Jo wished he'd take it. At least then, she'd finally be truly alone with her thoughts for the first time that hectic day.

"No," was Tim's stout reply.

"No," she mimicked childishly. "And why not?" She'd already finished half his glass and was determined to drain the entire bottle if this back and forth was to continue.

Tim crossed his arms in a show of resolve. "I meant what I said."

Jo knew precisely which admission he was referring to, but she wished she didn't. She tried to buy time by drinking the remains of the glass in hand, filling it right back up once the amber liquid was gone. However, an irritation continued to swell in her chest. One that could not be quelled by any amount of alcohol.

She rounded on Tim aggressively in an instant. "Why? I'm seriously at a loss here as to why. I've got nothing to offer you. Sure, I've got a decent job, a nice house, and I easily put out, but my shitty attitude should more than eclipse that."

Tim opened his mouth to interrupt her, but Jo threw up a hand to silence him. "No, just shut up. I know I'm elusive, and I lack the capacity for vulnerability. So, why are you even entertaining all that when you could, instead, have a pretty blonde preacher's sister who wouldn't be quite as much trouble?"

The last portion of her inquiry had Tim's mouth snapping shut. Whatever argument he'd had immediately died on his lips.

Jo chuckled sardonically at his apparent surprise. "Yeah, I know all about that too," she mocked, gesturing her pointer finger at him in an accusatory manner, while the remainder stayed firmly wrapped around her glass.

"That wasn't what you think," Tim tried to assure.

"It never is," she said with a roll of the eyes.

A stillness fell over the kitchen as they surveyed one another. Jo finally gave in to the deafening silence. Sighing, she deflated slightly. "Can you just go so I can do what I've got to do?" She asked with a defeated tone.

"What is it you've gotta do, huh? Drink until you pass out?" Tim's attitude was far too judgemental for Jo's liking.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm gonna do." Then, quieter, she added, "and pretend this never happened."

There was a moment of nothingness, then Tim surged forward and snatched the glass right from her hand before she could fill it a fourth time. "Goddammit, Jo," he exclaimed in frustration, slamming the glass down on the counter beside him.

Jo remained unimpressed by his display of exasperation. "You know I can just drink it straight from the bottle, right?" She taunted his efforts to stall her by waving the container between them.

This, it seems, turned out to be the wrong ridicule because Tim claimed the bottle just as quickly. He tucked it away with the glass he'd also unjustly confiscated from her, firmly out of Jo's reach.

Now, she was equally as infuriated as him. "What the fuck do you want, Tim? Like, shit. I don't know why you're still entertaining any of this," Jo expressed angrily, with arms thrown about.

"I want you to be honest with me," he reasoned, arms still crossed against his chest. He'd shouted at her previously, but now his words came out eerily calm.

An unladylike like snort expelled from Jo's mouth at his request. "I've been nothing but honest with you. Hell, I've told you shit that no one alive, but Raylan knows. Can't that be enough?"

The exhaustion at this conversation was apparent in her voice, but Tim wasn't planning on allowing her the privilege of a reprieve.

"Then try to be honest about us," he restated with a measure of finality in his timber.

All expression dropped from Jo's face, even the annoyance. A wall was constructed behind her eyes that refused to allow any degree of emotion or thought to seep through. "There is no us," she commented shortly. "There's you, and then there's me, but we aren't together. If you knew what was good for you, you'd let it stay that way."

Tim didn't allow time for the sentiment to resonate before responding. "Why, because you had a rough childhood?" He scoffed at her blatant attempts to sway his certainty. "Join the club. And, it's not like you're the only one who struggles to emote. But, none of that matters."

"Because…?" Jo's question trailed off, prompting Tim to justify his reasoning.

He inhaled sharply through his nose before taking a step closer to her. Jo had to physically restrain herself from taking a step back in turn. She briefly humored the notion of sidestepping him and reclaiming her alcohol but figured that action would shatter the moment he was trying to cultivate.

She remained stark still instead, as he progressed towards her. "Because it's different," Tim sought to explain. "We're different," he declared while hesitantly reaching out towards her like one would a skittish animal.

And that's exactly what Jo was, skittish. She was far displaced from her comfort zone. Adrift in a sea of fragility without her usual vices to serve as a life raft. But, she limply allowed Tim to pull her into his chest. Her head coming to rest upon his shoulder.

"Sounds like a recipe for disaster," she murmured into his jacket. Her hands still hung by her sides, refusing to give in to his warmth entirely. If she did, Jo knew all her determination to be contrary would be lost.

He chuckled at her assessment. "Yeah, probably," Tim concluded. "Doesn't mean we shouldn't give it a shot."

Goddamn Tim and his resilience, Jo thought. This was just supposed to be a bit of harmless fun, but he had to go and get serious on her. Apparently, for all his investigative work, he still couldn't recognize red flags as they waved prominently in his face.

"You're agitating," Jo grumbled, turning her face into his chest. She aimed to instill some levity into their far too exposing conversation.

"And you're a pain in the ass," Tim stated in return. The assessment was crass but fair.

Jo pulled back from the embrace to peer at Tim's face. She swallowed hard and steeled herself for the words preparing to leave her mouth.

"If I allow you to be my boyfriend, can I have my booze back?" She couldn't help but turn the serious matter into a jesting one. It felt more comfortable that way. More manageable.

Tim raised a brow in disbelief. "Only for the booze?"

"I mean, it's not an unimportant factor," Jo admitted with a tilt of the head. Tim's eyes surveyed her face to deduce her level of earnest but was left wanting. She tread the line between sarcasm and sincerity so tightly that it was difficult to say what was real and what was mockery.

Instead, he abandoned the frivolous pursuit and reached over to recover the nearly empty bottle from the counter, handing it back to her as requested.

Jo smiled smugly before bringing the bourbon to her lips and drinking heavily. Once she'd had her fill, Jo pulled back and offered the remainder to Tim, who briskly finished off the last bit and returned the empty container to its previous spot on the counter.

With that particular obstacle out of the way, Tim wasted no time in pulling Jo back towards him. His lips descended upon hers like waves crashing upon the beach.

Jo hadn't been expecting the ferocity of his affection, and incidentally stumbled backward against the stove under the weight of Tim's body pressing against hers. He followed in step, never breaking contact as he continued to draw her into him further.

She ignored the sting of the stove's edge digging into her back while her hands wove through his hair, tugging gently at the locks he'd grown out recently. Tim groaned at the sensation, his hands gripping ever tighter on her waist.

Pulling back for air, Jo moaned when Tim's lips dropped to her neck and began sucking harshly on the exposed skin. They weren't reckless teenagers by any means, but she wouldn't be surprised if there would be a red mark left in his wake. But, that was a problem for tomorrow.

With nimble fingers, Jo worked to unbuckle Tim's belt and unbutton his pants. Once the zipper was lowered, the garment pooled around his ankles.

Withdrawing from her momentarily, Tim struggled to kick off his boots and remove the restricting clothing quickly. Before tossing the items out of reach on the kitchen floor.

Meanwhile, Jo pulled her shirt up overhead and disposed of the article carelessly. Her bra followed shortly thereafter, and she went to work on her own jeans.

With only their underwear remaining, Jo thought better of having sex in the decidedly unkempt kitchen. "Upstairs," she demanded while panting.

Tim's darkened eyes ranked over her figure before grasping her beneath the thighs and hoisting Jo up on his waist.

The pair stumbled up the stairs and into her old bedroom, where she'd never been brave enough to sneak a boy before.


End file.
